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IRISH MONTHLY. 
A Magazine of General Piterature. 


EDITED BY THE REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL, S.J. 


EIGHTEENTH YEARLY VOLUME, 


18go. 


DUBLIN: 
M H. GILL & SON, O’CONNELL STREET. 
LONDON ; BURNS AND OATES; SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO. 





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CONTENTS. 


Ad 
Srortezs. 

PAGE 
Told in a Florentine Studio. By the Rev. David Bearne, 8.J. .. oe 38 
Bracken Hollow. By Rosa Mulholland ., ee ve sv 67 
In a Quiet Street. By M. E. Francis es ee os ee 182 
Father Pat. By M. E. Francis oe .s oe s. 865 
Mike Dunne’s Cure. By A. N. ee oe s 481 
The Organist’s Vigil. By the Rev. David Bearne, 8. J. s 601 

A Striking Contrast. By the Author of “ The Miser of Kingsoourt. ” 
OHAPTER I. Sylvia’s Home ee ee ee 118 
II. Sylvia’s Escort ee ee 120 
IiI. On Board the “ Oimbria ” se eo 126 
IV. A Terrible Night eo ee ee 169 
Vv. Oast up by the Sea ee ae ee 174 
VI. A Cruel Separation oe oe «. 176 
VII. A Revelation : ee es 179 
VIII. A Voice from the Wilderness oe oo 186 
IX. On the Track ee 1 oe s. 226 
X. A Bitter Disappointment ee oe 236 
XI. Anxious Days ee ve s 281 
XII. Put to the Test oo oe ee 286 
XIII. Lord Ashfield is much puzzled ve ~- 337 
XIV. Who.is Sylvia? se oe » 343 
XV. Lady Ashfield makes up her mind .. se 893 
XVI. Lord Ashfield makes a request oe oe 399 
XVII. Madge loses her situation ee ee 406 
XVIII. Dora’s Visitor oe oe ~ 449 
XIX. An Unexpected Meeting ee s 468 
XX. A Sudden Determination ve - 614 
XXI. Madge is persuaded to be silent oe -. 519 
XXII. Dora is tried beyond her strength .. os 627 
XXIII. Lady Ashfield changes her tactics .. s 571 
XXIV. At Bay oe ee é 577 
XXV. Do they speak the truth p oe, oo 617 
XXXVI. Sir Eustace is forced to believe ee oe 623 
XXVII. Sylvia gives way to despair ee ee 628 
XXVIII. Wedding Bells . - oo 634 

Molly's Fortanes. By M. E. Francis. 

CHAPTER XXVI. Home Again oo ee ee 17 
XXVII. A Love Token ee ee ea 24 
XXVII. Arcadia ee e ee oe 80 


iv Con/ents. 


Sketcues or PLaces AND PgErsons. 


. PAGE 

Irish Jesuits since 1800 ae Ws ae oa 1 

A Sketch from Life. By Alfred Webb, . “a -» 76 

Items about Irish Men and Women cá me a 100, 441 

An Ulster Poet. By John MeGrath Se acs ia .. 149 

Russian Field. By D. Moncrieff O'Connor a oe 191 

The Life and Influence of St, Augustine. By the Rev. P. A. Sheehan 200, 242 
The Irish ( istercians of Mount Melleray. By Rosa Mulholland -- 210 
The Rev, C. P. Meehan. [fy the Editor ., a oe s 218 
Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. By the Editor 248, 320 
The Dalida Maligawa. By M. Stenson .. és Mh .. 276 
A Glance atthe Lutter-Day Saints, By M. A.C. .. oe -- 309 
Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore Part X. By the Editor .. .. 869 
Sketches in Lrish Biography. No. 19.—John Cornelius O’Callaghan. By M. 411 
Saints and Sight-Seeing at Annecy. By L. M. Kenny Sh «s 427 
The Seraph of Assisi. By the Rev. P. A. Sheehan .. sá .. 468 
Cardinal Newman, By the Editor he - á -- 600 
Under the Golden Spears. By M. E. Francis - - s. 5065 
Good-bye to Ober-Ammergau till 1900, By Katharine Roche ., «» 636 
St. Yvesof Brittany. By Mrs. Bartle Teeling Se mm é 544 
John Pius Leahy, 0,P., Bishop of Dromore. By the Editor .. 661, 646 
Sir Charles Hallé, the Musician aa site ia s. 688 
Items from Australia - gá ie s 598 - 
The Kermesse at Ath. By M. Stenson or ee ». 609 
An Australian's Notes at Wiesbaden. By Susan Gavan Duffy ., .. 640 
Essays AnD Reviews. 
A Now Descriptive of Christmastide. By R. E. a i ua . 34 

Anonymities Unveiled ne we ve os -- 43 

Walter Crane and Denny Lane on Art Education ., oe se. 83 

A Modern Conversation. By M.W.L. .. - ais Ná s. 92 

Linen Weaving in Skibbereen. By Rosa Mulholland - . 146 

The Two Civilisations. By the Rev. P. A. Sheehan - 293, 368 

Norges on New Books. 

Father Tiussell’s Harp of Jesus,—The Poor Sisters fof Nazareth.—A Book of 
(told, &e.—Fhilip’s Restitution.—Lady Ferguson’s ‘‘ Ireland before the 
Conquest.""—Irish Fairy 'Tales.—Linda’s Task.—The Armourer of 
Solingen.—Wrongfully Aeccused.—Christmas Legends.—The Jolly 
Harper.—Life of Dom Boseo.—A Shrine and a Story, &c., &e. ee 61 

Father Gallwey’s Salvage from the Wreck.—C. Patmore's Principle in Art.— 

‘Lhe Poetry and Song of Ireland.—The Irish in Boston.—The Review of 
Reviews. — Hoppy-go-lucky.—F lowers from the Catholic Kindergarten.— 
The Light of Reason —Mise Peggy O’ Dillon.-- Songs in a Minor Key.— 
Pacific Coast Almanac,—Catholio Annual, &. ., ie +» 108 








Contents. . vO 


PAGE 
Blunders and Forgeries: Historical Essays by Fathef Bridgett.—lIsabella of 
Castile.—Sir J. C. Barrow’s Mary of Nazareth.—Cardinal Manning on 
Nationat Education.—Works about St. Patrick, St. Joseph, and St. 
Francis of Assisi.— Miss Amy Fowler’s Tales.— Books and Reading.— 
St. Cecilia’s Gates.—New American Publications.—Souvenir College of 
American Catholic Congress.—Political Prisoners.—-Father Gerard’s 
Natural History Papers.—On Resone Bent.—The Bugle Call, and Other 
Poems, &. .. 160 
My Time and what I’ve done with it. —Rev. Arthur Ryan’ 8 Sermons, 1877- 
1887.—Scenes from the Life of St. Benedict.—St. Patrick’s Hymn Book. 
—Golden Words, &c., &c. 223 
William Leighton’s Poems. —Development of Old English Thonght. — Dom 
Bosco.—Rev. P. Dillon’s Sermons.—Life of St. Justin.—Marie and 
Paul.—Sufferings of English Carthnusians.—F. Charles Sire, 8.J.—A 
Shrine and a Story.—The Church of my Baptism 277 
The One Mediator.—The Passion Play at Ober Ammergan. _—Kathleen 
Mavourneen.—1791: a Tale of St. Domingo.—Carmel in America.— 
Chimes for Holydays.— Poems and Ballads of Young Ireland. —Principles 
of Religious Life.—Notes on Electric Lighting.—Easy Lessons in 
Cookery.—St. Brigid of Kildare.—Benediction Hymns Explained, &c. .. 3833 
Ireland’s Ancient Schools and Scholars.—Lehmkuhl’s De Ponte.— Wild Birds 
of Killeevy.—Odile.—Institutiones Patrologis.—English Criticson.‘‘ The 
Harp of Jesus.”—Thomas Rileton.—Socialism.—Natural Religion.— 
Wreaths of Song.— Poems of the Past.— American Catholic Periodicals. — 
Sir C. C. Duffy’s Thomas Davis, &c., &o. 387 
Rosa Mulholland’s New Stories.— Life of "Thomas Davis. — Brother Ararias o on 
Literature.—Aids to Elocution.—The Leper Queen.—F. Perry, the 
Jesuit Astronomer.—Plain Sermons.—Life of B. Margaret Mary.—St. 
John the Baptist.— Life of St. Patrick.—Christian Education.—Dr. More 
Madden on Hypnotism _., 437 
Lady Margaret Domville’s Lamartine. —Educational Grievances of Irish 
Catholics.—Forgotten Heroines.—Life of St. Thomas Aquinas. —Maxims 
of St. Philip Neri.—Wild Birds of *Rilleory — Tustrated Catholic 
Missions, &c., &c. oe oe 503 
Judge O’Hagan’s Children’s Ballad Rosary. a  Bummer Holiday i in 
Europe.—Rosa Mulholland’s ‘‘ Father Mathew.”—American Con- 
fectionery Book.—Sayings of Cardinal Newman.—-Children of Holy 
Scripture.—Illustrated Catholic Missions.—The Lamp.—History of the 
Passion.-—Catholic Truth Society’s Publications . ~- 656 
Rev. T. Gilmartin’s Church History. —Cardinal Moran’ 8 Occasional Papers—  ' 
N. Russo, S.J., de Philosophia Morali.—Baker’s Holy Wisdom.—‘‘ Truth” 
on Miss Mulholland’s Latest Volume.—Mrs, Sigerson’s Irish Novel.— 
C. T. S. Newest Publications.—Valentine Riant.—Grandfather and 
Grandson,—Little Gems, from Thomas a Kempis.—The Paternoster 
Review 613 
“ 'Whisper!’’ by Frances Wynne —Verses along the Way. —Lehmkuhl 
Moral Theology.—Dr. 8. B. Smith’s Canon Law.—Tom in a Tangle.— 
The Sacred Heart studied in the Scriptures.— Little Helpers of the Holy 
Souls.—A Cracked Fiddle.—Catholic Annual, &c.—Criticiams on Judge 
O' Hagan's Ballad Rosary for Children os on eo 660 


vi — Contents. 


Poems AND MisceLLANngous PAPERS. 
7 


En Attendant, By Frances Wynne oe ee ae 
Comrades. By 8. ee ee ee se oe 
Lux in Tenebris. By Katharine Tynan os oo es 
Dethroned. By E. 8. oe oe ee ee 
The Redbreast. By D.B. .. ee 


In the Hospice for the Dying. By Katharine Tyna 
The Prayer of St. Atty. By Patrick J.Coleman ., 


The Childhood of Father Damien. By W. G. w 
Two Unpublished Letters of Dr. Livingstone ee 
To a Shell brought from Norway. By G. T. oe oe 
On reading Aubrey de Vere’s ‘‘ Legend of St. Patrick.’? By M. F. M. 
A Shamrock. By Helena Callanan ve oe ee 
March. By Mary Elizabeth Blake oe oe ee 
Other Worlds. By T.E.B. .. ee se 
A Story of a Saint. By Clement J. B. Carteret os ve 
Damianus Apostolus Leprosorum. By H. A. Hinkson ve 
Lines of St. Prudentius. By T. E. B. .. oe oe 
A Californian Rose. By Magdalen Rock ve ve 
A Grove in Spring. By M. F. M. ee os oe 
The Blessiug of Dublin. By 8. oe oe oe 
Innocence. By Dora Sigerson oe ee oe 
The Pope’s Last Poem. ee oe ve oe 
From Shore to Shore. By E. 8, eo oe ee 
Little Dorrit. By Mary Furlong - os os 
A Venetian Ballade. By Eugene Davis .. os ee 
The Children’s Ballad Rosary. By Judge O’ Hagan 
I.—The Joyful Mysteries ve oo ee 
II.—The Sorrowful Mysteries .. oe os 
HI.— The Glorious Mysteries es as oe 
A Life’s Strength, By Teresa Boylan ., oe 
Home-sickness. By Katharine Tynan ., oe 
Mother of God, O Mother! By the Rev. R. OQ’ Kennedy oe 
Unpublishd Letter of D'Arcy McGee es ee ve 
The Priest. By D. B. Collins ee ve ve 
Providence. By Patrick J. Coleman we ee ve 


Sick Calls. By the Rev. Richard O’ Kennedy 


A Shepherd without Sheep, By the Rev. John Fitzpatrick, OM. I. 


The Highway to Fame. By Dora Sigerson ee oe 
Kindness, By R. O’K. ee se oe 
Dead—in New York. By Magdalen Rock ee oe 
A Proof-reader’s Act of Contrition ee ve ee 
Martyrs, By 8. H. C. oe oe ee oe 
Members of the Congregation. By Frances Wynne .. ee 
A Twilight Vigil, ByI.D. .. ee ee oe 
The Melancholy Ocean. By O. ve 
The Irish Reaper’s Evensong. By Patriok J. Coleman oe 


To the Night. By Hilaire Belloo 8 90 se 














. - AF 


Contents. 


Cardinal Newman. By M. Nethercott .. 7 oe 
A Caoine. By Rose Kavanagh oe es oo 
Paradise Lost. By Frances Wynne os - 


The Month’s Mind at Edgbaston. By John D. Ocllongh be. 


To a Sorrowing Mother. By Grace Baiss . 

“De Profundis.”’ By Montagu Griffin ., 

Interpreting. By R.O’K. .. ee oe a 
Sonnet. By BE. 5. ee ee oe 
Ellen O’Leary. By Rose Kavanagh ee 


To a Bee found dead in a Flower. By the Rev. John Fitzpatrick, O.MLI. 


Pigeonhole Paragraphs oe . oe oe 
The Children. By G.N.P. .. i s, i. 
Sinite Parvulos. Ry the Rev. David Bearne, S.J. ae 

Little White Rose. By Dora Sigerson .. 

To Sister Mary Benigna. By the Rev. John Fitzpatrick, OMI. 
Captain Vernon Harris and “ The Irish Monthly”’ .. oe 
Judge O’Hagan: A Wordin Memory... oe 7 


NOTICE. 


The many. kind friends who take a personal interest in- the 
prosperity of this Magazine can serve it best by forwarding at once 
their subscription of Seven Shillings for the year 1891, to the 
Rev. Marruew Russet, 8.J., St. Francis Xavier's, Upper 
Gardiner-street, Dublin, who will be glad of the opportunity of 
thanking them individually. 








THE 


IRISH MONTHLY. 


JANUARY, 1890. 





IRISH JESUITS SINCE 1800. 


HE following sketch, founded on some notes of Father 
Grene’s (who died Feb. 4, 1887, aged 80), was drawn up 
for a domestic publication, intended only for members of the 
Society of Jesus. Some of the persons named were known, or are 
known, to many of our readers, who will also take a kind interest 
in some whom they hear of here for the first time. The domestic 
character of some of its details is, indeed, an obvious objection to 
the publication of the sketch in its present form; but, on the other 
hand, its simplicity and unconventionality may have advantages of 
their own. 


Irish history has been said to be tnvertebrete, wanting the backbone 
which is furnished to the history of England (for instance) hy the 
regular line of kings, around whom historians have found it con- 
venient to group the successive events into chapters. In the history 
of the Society of Jesus a similar purpose is served by the succession 
of generals. Even in this fragment of the history of a small province 
of the Minima Soctetas, the fittest item to begin with is a list of the 
Irish Provincials. Strictly speaking, the first of these was Father 
Joseph Lentaigne, who became Provincial on the feast of the Immaculate 
Conception, 1860. Ireland was previously a Vice-Province from the 
year 1830, and before that date a Mission, both depending immediately 
on. the Father General. 


SUPERIORS OF THE MISSION. 
Peter Kenney, September 30, 1812. 
Charles Aylmer, September 29, 1817. 
Bartholomew Esmonde, August, 1820. 
Peter Kenney (a second time), September 29, 1821. 
Vou. gvru. No. 199. : 50 





2 The Irish Monthly. 


VICE-PROVINCIALS. 


Robert St. Jeger, May, 1830. 
Peter Kenney (for a third time), April, 1834. 

Patrick Bracken, May, 1836. i 

Robert St. Leger (second term of office), February 23, 1841. 
John Curtis, March 19, 1850. 

John Ffrench, June 24, 1856. 

Joseph Lentaigne, February 2, 1858. 


PROVINCIALS. 


Joseph Lentaigne, December 8, 1860. 
Edmund O'Reilly, December 8, 1868. 
Nicholas Walsh, April 20, 1870. 
Aloysius Sturzo, March 18, 1877. 
James Tuite, July 31, 1880. 

Thomas P. Brown, April 21, 1883. 
Timothy Kenny, February 3, 1888. 


The chief link between the Irish Jesuits who flourished before the 
suppression of the Society in 1773, and those who resumed their work 
after the restoration, was Father Thomas Betagh, who was born at 
Kells, in Co. Meath, in 1738. He was not the youngest of the 
ex-Jesuits, for Father John Barron was only 49 years old when he 
died in 1798, and Father Betagh was over 60 at that date. The 
following seventeen are given as the survivors of the Irish Mission, as 
our Province was then called :— 


John Ward . . . , died 1775 aged 40 
Clement Kellly . . . - yy L777 ,, 69 
Edward Keating . . a 77. ,, 69 
John St. Leger . . . - 5, 89 4, 70 
Nicholas Barron . . , a, 1784 ,, 64 
John Austin . . . s a, 1784 ,, Gi 
Peter Berill . . , a N84 4, 72 
James Morony . : . . 5, 1785 á 71 
Michael Cawood . . . . 5, 1787 «4, 79 
Michael Fitzgerald . . . 9, 1791 4, 97 
John Fullam . . . . 5, 1793 4, 74 
Paul Power . . . ~ 9, 1795 4, 68 
John Barron . . - 5, 1798 ,, 49 
Joseph O'Halloran . . . 9, 180 4, 74 
James Mulcaile . . . . g 1801 ,, 73 
Richard O'Callaghan . . . a 1807 ,, 79 
Thomas Betagh . . . a 1811 , 78 








Trish Jesuits since 1800. SS 


These Fathers looked forward with confidence to the restoration 
of the beloved Society, and they husbanded carefully the resources in 
their hands, confiding the management of them to one of their 
number who gave an account of this fund when they met from time 
to time. Father John Ward filled this office very satisfactorily, and, 
at his death in 1775 Father Fullam succeeded. These funds were 
kept safe with the help of Father Marmaduke Stone, and still more 
of Father Charles Plowden of the English Province. 

These Irish Fathers devoted themselves to missionary work, and 
also to education in Dublin, with great success, Father Austin and 
Father Betagh being the most distinguished. Several youths of high 
promise were trained up with a view to entering the Society, 
especially after it had been restored in Sicily, in the year 1804, by 
Pupe Pius VI. Thither these candidates for the Society were sent 
from Stonyhurst, where they had been placed for their education. 
About this time the Father General Brzozowski wrote to Father 
Betagh a letter, which is preserved in the archives of the Irish 
Province, and which shows the close relations subsisting between the 
members of the suppressed Society in places so far apart as Dublin 
and St. Petersburg :— 


REVERENDE IN CHRISTO PATER, 


Cum summa animi mei voluptate a Patribus nostris qui sunt in 
Anglia accep] quam egregiam operam quamque utilem Reverentia 
vestra, quamquam eetate provecta, ponat in illa Domini Nostri vinea. 
Non dubito benevolentiam qua Episcopi Hibernise prosequuntur 
Societatem proficisci a zelo apostolico antiquorum nostrorum Patrum, 
sed eandem augeri per laborom indefessum quem vident a Reverentia 
vestra in salute animarum procuranda exantlari. Gratias igitur Reve- 
rentize vestre ago quantas possum maximas pro hoc erga Matrem 
nostram amore. Perge, Vater Reverende, eam tuis ornare offictis et 
beneficiis. Para tui zeli et spiritus successores ex iis Juvenibus qui 
in Anglia instruuntur. Certissimus est consensus Summi Pontificis 
quoad vestram nobiscum unionem, quidquid quidam aliter dicant vel 
scribant. Hoe consensu posito, cum melius profecto sit esse quam 
non esse, judicarem Societatem in Hibernia etiam resuscitari posse, 
licet caute, prudenter, et sine strepitu, ne scilicet ob hunc ipsum 
-consensum Sanctissimo Patri nove causentur molestiz. Venict 
tempus, et brevi quidem, quo Sancta Sedes etiam canonice scripto 
hanc unionem confirmabit. Si itaque mature preparamus socios, 
gaudebit tum ecclesia Hibernensium, gaudebit Societas, adesse 
operarios et milites’qui ad prelia Domini preelianda sint parati. 

R. P. Callaghan virum apostolicum. saluto ac veneror. Utrique 





pot 


‘4 The Irish Monthly. 


! 


omnem divinam benedictionem precor, meque Societatemque utriusgue- 
sanctis sacrificiis commendo. 
Reverentire Vestree 
Servus in Christo addictissimus, 
THappzvus Brzozowsk!, 


P.G., 8. J. 
Petropoli, 14 Junii, 1806. 


Father Betagh, who then filled the office of Vicar-General to the 
Archbishop of Dublin, had formed high expectations, in particular of 
Mr Peter Kenney, then about 25 years of age. A friend said to him 
one day: ‘Oh! Dr. Betagh, what will become of us all when you go 
to Heaven ?” ‘No matter,’ answered he, ‘I am old and stupid, but 
there is a young cock coming from Sicily that will crow ten times as 
loud as ever I could do.’ 

In the ninth volume of this Magazine, at page 441, and again at 
page 500 (August and September 1881), may be found an article 
entitled ‘To Palermo and Back, Seventy years Ago,’ which describes 
the voyage to Sicily of the first band of young Irish Jesuits of the 
nineteenth century. <A letter is there given, dated ‘Stonyhurst, July 


7th, 1809,’ in which the Rector, Father Nicholas Sewall, gives ‘the: 


Rev. Mr. Betagh, Cook Street, Dublin,’ an account of the departure 
from Liverpool in the ship Lascelles of Bartholomew Esmonde of 
Kildare, Paul Ferley of Dublin, Charles Aylmer of Kildare, Robert 
St. Leger of Waterford, Edmond Cogan of Cork, and James Butler 
of Dublin—‘all young men of abilities and likely to do credit to their 
country.’ Next follows a minute account of the voyage by Bartholomew 
Esmonde, then aged 19 years, and the youngest of the little company. 
Peter Kenney and Matthew Gahan had preceded them to the Kingdom 
of the Two Sicilies. England then occupied Sicily against France ; 
and Father Kenney was sent on one occasion to Civita Vecchia to act 
as interpreter between the Pope and the English Admiral, who held 
himself in readiness to give to His Holiness the protection of the 
British fleet. 

Of the little band mentioned above Edmund Cogan died after a 
yearin Sicily. The others after their ordination were fortunate enough 
to be at Rome on their homeward journey when the Pope restored the 
Society throughout the world. They were thus among the first to 
resume the Jesuit dress. On the 7th of August, 1814, the Bull of 
Restoration was published at the Gesu, where the Pope, in the presence 
of the Sacred College of Cardinals, celebrated Mass at the altar of 
St. Ignatius. 

Meanwhile Father Betagh had died at 92 Cook Street, Dublin, 
Feb. 16th, 1811, aged 73. He had kept an excellent schoul behind the 





« 


. 


Trish Jesuits since 1800. 5 


houses in Fishamble Street, and amongst his pupils was Daniel 
Murray, afterwards Archbishop of Dublin, and ever a devoted friend 
to Father Kenney and the Society. Another pupil of his was Michael 
Blake, the restorer of the Irish College in Rome, and subsequently 
Bishop of Dromore in Ulster.* Inasermon preached on Palm Sunday, 
1811, which was printed with another in 1821, and which now lies 
before us, he pays a very touching tribute to the ‘venerable Betagh,’ 
as he calls him. The sermon was for the evening Free Schools which 
Father Betagh had founded and supported, and which to this day are 
known as Dr. Betagh’s Schools. Already, in 1811, more than three 
thousand boys had received their education in these schools, which 
have been continuing their work ever since. Dr. Blake speaks of . 
‘the man who established that Institution, who cherished the objects 
of it with the affection of a parent, who superintended their instruc- 
tion, who rewarded the must promising of them by a classical 
education, who at the age of seventy-three would sit down in a cold, — 
damp cellar every night to hear the lessons of these children, and 
contrived to clothe forty of the most destitute of them every year at 
his own expense.’ After describing the patriarch's holy death, the 
young priest—who himself lived for fifty years after—gives a wonder- 
ful account of the grief shown by the people, ‘the crowds which, at 
all hours of the day aud night, and under the most heavy, incessant 
rain, were seen pouring in from every quarter of the city to the house 
where his body lay.’ His funeral testified to the extraordinary 
veneration in which he was held by all classes. 

But we have given an undue amount of our space to Father 
Betagh. We do sv because he was the chief connecting link between 
the old and the new Society in Ireland. Another of the Fathers 
during the interregnum, Father Mulcaile, translated TF eller's 
Philosophical Catechism into English. Father Callaghan, whom 
Father Brzozowski, in the letter quoted before, salutes and vensrates 
as a cir apostolicus, had suffered for the faith in the Philippine 
Islands. | 

After their return from Sicily in 1812, Fathers Kenney, Dinan, 
and Gahan resided at No 3 George’s Hill, Dublin, which house is now 
a portion of the schools of the Presentation Nuns. -The Jesuits, before 
and during the Suppression, had long been connected with that parish 
of St. Michan, and they officiated in the Parish Church, formerly in 
Mary’s Lane, but removed long since to North Anne Street. Father 
Kenney was: Superior of the Irish Mission of the Society. Another 
pupil of Father Betagh’s, Dr. Daniel Murray, had been appointed 


* Several papers in our Ninth and Tenth Volumes were devoted to this vener- 
able man. 


sm 


6 The Irish Monthly. 


Coadjutor to Dr. Troy, the Archbishop of Dublin ; and yet, in June, 
1812, he was persuaded. by the Bishops to become president of 
Maynooth College. He yielded, it is said, on condition that Father 
Kenney should help him as vice-president. In the College Calendar 
Father Kenney’s appointment is assigned to the following November. 
Their term of office was intended to be brief, but it left its mark on 
the College, and no doubt had a share in the immense veneration with. 
which Father Kenney’s name is still remembered among the priests. 
of Ireland. The meditations which the Vice-President proposed during 
that year to tho students were eagerly copied, and are not even yet 
forgotten or disused. | 

The money mentioned before as having been carefully husbanded 
during the Suppression was expended on the purchase of Castle 
Browne, ‘or Clongowes Wood, in County Kildare, 16 Irish miles, or 
27 English miles, from Dublin. It is now known by its older name of 
Clongowes, but at the time it was called Oastle Browne, from the old 
Catholic family who had owned it, and of whom the head then was. 
General Browne, in the service of the King of Saxony. Captain Wogan 
Browne is at this present moment a Catholic Officer in the British 
army. The Brownes had been in possession for two hundred yeare, 
being preceded by another Catholic race, the Eustaces, whose name 
still survives in the small town of Ballymore Eustace not far distant. 
The purchase of Clongowes was completed in 1813, but some time was. 
spent in preparing it for its new destiny. The first pupil entered on 
the 14th of May, 1814. We should gladly mention the boy’s name if 
tradition had handed it down. 

There lies before us a fragment of a diary kept by someone at 
Clongowes two years after. Some little bits of internal evidence seem 
to point to Father Charles Aylmer as its author ; and comparing the- 
handwriting with that of Father Aylmer’s ‘Journal of a Tour in 
Sicily,’ which chances to come under our eyes at this moment, the two: 
manuscripts seem to be written by the same person. The Sicilian 
Journal is dated three years earlier, September, 1813. We notice in 
it that Father Aylmer was already a priest in his 29th year, having 
been born in 1784. This fragment of a journal ends with a lovingly 
minute description of the shrine of St. Lucy, at Syracuse ; and this is 
another proof of identity between Father Aylmer and the Clongowes 
Diarist, for it explains what had previously surprised me—namely, 
why in the Diary December 13th is called ‘St. Lucy’s Day,’ no other 
saint of November and December being thus mentioned, except, of 
course, St. Stanislaus and St. Francis Xavier. 

The diary begins on October Ist, 1816, giving the status domus at 
full length. Father Peter Kenney, Superior of the whole Society in 





Trish Jestgts since 1800. 7 


Treland, prefect of higher studies, preaches every week to the pupils. 
Father Aylmer is the Minister and Father Claudius Jautard is 
Spiritual Father—a Frenchman, who seemed a patriarch in the youthful 
community, as another old scrap of paper tells us he was born in 
1740, and entered the Society in 1756. before Choiseul and Pombal 
and the devil had got their will. Father James Butler is Professor 
of Moral and Dogmatic Theology. Father Paul Ferley is Professor 
of Logic and Metaphysics ; and curiously enough it is announced that 
he is to preach on the next Good Friday, still half a year distant, 
Father Matthew Gahan is described as missioner in the parish of St. 
Nicholas, Francis Street, Dublin, and confessor to the Nuns at 
Harold’s Cross and Summer Hill—the former still the home of the Poor 
Clares, the latter the first beginnings of the Irish Sisters of Charity. 
The four remaining priests in the Clongowes Community seventy 
years ago were Fathers Robert St. Leger, W. Dinan, Bartholomew 
Esmonde (Superior of the Scholastics), and John Ryan, a missioner in 
St. Paul's Parish, Arran Quay. Among the Scholastic, the masters 
and prefects were Brothers Frazer, Levins, Connor, Bracken, Sherlock, 
Moran, Mullen, and McGlade. Several of these were following the 
theological classes at the same time, and others were applied exclusively 
to their studies ; of these last two survived to our own time, dying 
only two or three years ago, nonagenarians—Robert Haly and John 
Curtis. A third was the first of all to die, the first buried in the 
rustic graveyard of old Mainham—Nicholas Fitzharris, who had been 
a Maynooth student during Father Kenney’s vice-presidency, and 
followed him when he left the College. 

The Diary begins with All Saints’ Day, 1816, mentioning that the 
number of scholars was then 194. On the feast of St. Francis 
Xavier it is recorded, ‘J. Heaney came to the house, and completed 
the 200 scholars who are in all on the list 201, in the house 199.’ 
Among these were Joseph Lentaigne, who was our first Irish 
Provincial, and his brother, who died recently, Sir John Lentaigne ;. 
also Frank Mahony (‘ Father Prout’), and James Lynch, now Bishop 
of Kildare. 

The manner in which Father Aylmer’s opinion is reported in the 
following passage is one of my reasons for thinking that Father 
Aylmer wrote the Diary. ‘The letter from Mr. Kenney on the 3rd 
was to desire the opinions of Fathers Ferley, Butler, and Aylmer 
with regard to his preaching a charity sermon in Cork, at the request 
of the Bishop, Dr. Murphy, and consequent to his accepting that of 
Cork, another in Limerick. The two former were of opinion that 
both ought to be accepted; the latter said he did not entirely agree 


* He died at Clongowes in 1821, aged 81. 


8 The Irish Monthly. 


with them, because he thought that Mr. Kenney’s frequent absence 
from the College, wher& he had so often declared that all were too 
young and not to be depended upon, was highly injurious. As to 
the propriety of preaching both sermons, Mr. Kenney himself could 
alone determine, as he alone knew the circumstances and situation of 
affairs.’ 

The Diary, which records very minutely’ everything about the 
examinations, and the health of the boys, and sundry other matters, 
ends with the 13th of December. On the same day it is said: ‘We 
heard that Mr. Kenney had got possession of Hardwick Street Chapel.’ 

These entries refer to the first Dublin Sanctuary of the Society 
after its Restoration. It was already a holy spot. The Poor Clares, 
who are now serving God according to their holy state at Harold’s 
Cross, near Dublin, carried out their vocation even amidst the terrors 
of the Penal Laws. In 1752, some of them who were living in North 
King Street, removed to the house of Major Favier in Drumcondra 
Lane, now called Dorset Street. ‘After a few years,’ say their 
annals, from which the Mother Abbess has copied this extract for us, 
‘they built a neat chapel with eight cells over it at a cost of £800. 
In the year 1804, October 19th, the community was transferred to 
Harold’s Cross; and their chaplain, the Rev. Bernard McMahon, 
took a lease of the chapel, and celebrated Mass there till his death. 
He had the eight cells prepared for his accommodation as a residence. 
The gentlemen of Clongowes College are now in possession of it, the 
entrance being in 38 Hardwick Street, which has been built on the 
site of our kitchen garden that stood at the rear of the convent.’ 

This, the first public Jesuit chapel in Ireland in this century, 
18 still easily recognised in the middle of Hardwick Street (No. 38). 

When St. Francis Xavier’s Church was opened in 1832, our Fathers 
used the Hardwick Street House as a day school till 1841, when 
Belvidere College was opened at No. 6 Great Denmark Street. It 
became subsequently a Methodist chapel, and is now a National 
school under Protestant auspices. It was here that Father Kenney 
preached some of his first sermons, with that massive eloquence which 
has made his name so profoundly respected by the Irish priests and 
people. Next tv him as a preacher was Father Esmonde, who began 
in the miserable little thatched parish chapel of Mainham. 

In 1817, Father Fidelis Grivel was sent as a Visitor to England and 
Ireland. He made Father Aylmer Rector of Clongowes, with Father 
Matthew Gahan as Minister. In some unpublished reminiscences of 
Father Haly, we learn that Father Aylmer changed the dinner hour 
from half-past 12 to half-past 3 o'clock, But after Father Aylmer’s 
rectorship this important event was changed back to the earlier hour. 





Trish: Jesuits since 1800. 9 


Amongst the founders of Clongowes, a high place belongs to 
Father James Butler. He was a man of extraordinary ability and 
devotedness and inspired masters and scholars* with some of his own 
energy. His health gave way, and he died on the 22nd of August, 
1821, aged 31 years : for his birthday was the feast of St. Stanislaus, 
1790. . 
Just before this, Father Aylmer had been chosen to take part in 
the procuratorial congregation at Rome. The Russian Tsar had 
turned against the Jesuits, whom he had before befriended when all 
the world was against them. Father Aylmer arranged that three of 
the Fathers banished by Russia should come to Ireland—Fathers 
Casimir Hlasko, Francis Stackhowsi, and a fine-looking young 
Father whose Christian name was Adam, says Father Haly. With 
this help a school of theology was opened, and six English scholastics 
were sent over to join it--John Weston, John Scott, Henry Brigham, 
William Watorton (brother to the famous traveller and naturalist), 
James Carr, and Bernard Addis. These all completed their theological 
course in Ireland, and retained ever after very pleasing memories of 
their Irish sojourn. 

Father Kenney was sent twice to America as Visitor; first by the 
General, Thaddeus Brzozowski, in 1819, when he returned after a few 
months, and again in 1830, by Father Noothaan, when he spent three 
years in his arduous and delicate office, to the satisfaction of all. 

Father Kenney, who had been Superivr of the Irish Mission almost 
continuously since 1812—Father Ayimer filling the office for three 
years after September 29th, 1817, and Father Esmonde for a year 
after 1820—upon his return from America, became the secund Vice- 
Provincial, in April, 1834, the first Superior, when Ireland became a 
Vice-Province in ,1830, being Father Robert St. Leger, who had a 
second term of nine years before 1850, between Father Bracken and 
Father Curtis. He it was who was, for some years before the last 
mentioned date, Prefect-Apostolic of Calcutta. 

It was chiefly between these two trips across the Atlantic—which 
at that time was considerably broader than it is accounted nuwadays— 
that Father Kenney acquired his great and solid reputation as a 
preacher. In his style of eloquence, and especially in his slow and 
weighty delivery, he resembled O’Connell far more than Sheil. His 
retreats to the clergy were eagerly sought for. An aged Bishop 


“ One of these translated the whole of Cicero’s oration, Pro Milone, into Greek, 
which won the admiration of a Fellow of Trinity College. Another (Jeremiah 
Juhn Murphy), afterwards Master in Chancery, composed rapidly, at a T.U.D. 
vxamination, some eighty or a hundred excellent Greek hexameters on a given 


vubject. 


10 The Irish Monthly. 


recalls in particular the overmastering tenderness and vehemence of 
his apostrophes to the crucifix, which he delivered with streaming 
eyes on some occasions; and he declares that his vivid recollection of 
Father Kenney’s preaching had made him unable to relish any other 
preacher, however eminent, even Father Thomas Burke himself. 
Father Aylmer, himself a most effective preacher, used to say that his 
greatest humiliation was to be obliged to preach from the same altar- 
steps from which Father Kenney had electrified the congregation the 
Sunday before. Naturally the crowd on such occasions overflowed into 
Hardwick Street. Grattan is said to have expressed great admiration 
for Father Kenney’s eloquence; and an eminent literary man declared 
that to listen to one of his well-prepared discourses was an exquisite 
‘intellectual treat. We may emphasize the phrase ‘ well-prepared’ as 
an excuse for remarking that the impressions of some who heard him 
when he was forced to speak without due preparation run counter to 
these enthusiastic testimonials. Father Kenney’s personal character 
had, no doubt, a large share in the effectiveness of his words. He 
was the trusted counsellor of very many among the priest and Bishops 
of Ireland. His own Archbishop, Doctor Murray, placed unlimited 
confidence in his life-long friend. When he wished to bring the 
famous J. K. L. round from certain peculiar opinions, Dr. Doyle and 
Father Kenney were invited to dine at the Archbishop’s house in 
North Cumberland Street* where the points in question were discussed 
with the greatest fulness and candour (as we are assured), and with 
the result desired. 

However, we must not forget that this rapid and unmethodical 
sketch is not a biography of Father Kenney, and we shall only 
udd that he died at Rome, November 19, 1841, aged 62. 

The venerable Dean Meagher, in his funeral oration over Arch- 
bishop Murray, called Father Kenney the Apostle of Dublin. Father 
Matthew Gahan,t whom we have mentioned before, had a better, or 
at least a more exclusive claim to the title often given to him, of 
Apostle of the Isle of Man. ‘This interesting island was altogether 
destitute of spiritual help, and full of strange superstitions, when he 
volunteered for this lonely mission in 1826. He laboured hard, 
built a church at Douglas, and established schools, not, we may 
be sure, from the resource supplied by the handful of indifferent 


* Quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore!' Not even a curate would lodge in 
Cumberland Screet now. Dr. Murray soon removed to Mountjoy Square, where lie 
died. 

t Nephew to Father William Gahan, 0O.S.A., remembered for his popular 
prayerbook ‘‘ Catholic Piety,” and for his connection with the deathbed of Lord 
Dunboyne. 








Trish Jesuits since 1800. Il 


Catholics he found on the island. Father Aylmer, by what we call an 
accident, paid him an unexpected visit in the early part of 1837, and 
was just in time to give the solitary missionary all the consolations of 
religion before he died on the 22nd of February. 

The second visit of the cholera to Dublin, in 1834 (the first visit 
was two years earlier), carried off after one night’s sickness, Father 
John Shine, and, four days later, Father Robert O’Ferrall, in his 
thirtieth year. The latter was brother to the Right Hon. Richard 
More O’Ferrall, whose best title to remembrance is that he resigned. 


the Governorship of Malta as a protest against Lord John Russell’s. 


Papal Agression Bill. Father Shine was, perhaps, after Father 
James Butler, the most efficient of the first Clongowes professors, and 
had for four or five years taken charge of the day school into which 
the Hardwick Street Chapel had been transformed after the opening 
of St. Francis Xavier's, Gardiner Street, He caught the dreadful 


malady from a poor person whom he was attending. So great was. 


the dread of contagion, that he was buried by torchlight in Glasnevin 
during the following night. 
Before mentioning some names of persons, it seems right to speak, 


even with unfair brevity, of a place in which many Irish Jesuits have- 


done good and hard work for God. The College of St. Stanislaus, at 


Tullabeg, in King’s County, forty-nine Irish miles from Dublin, was. 


opened not very long after Clongowes. It was, indeed, at first 
intended as a novitiate, and for some time was applied to this purpose 


under its first Rector, Father Robert St. Leger; but it soon became - 


a school, at first preparatory to Clongowes, and subsequently vieing 
with Clongowes. Large additional buildings were erected by 
subsequent Rectors, especially Fathers John Ffrench, Matthew 
Seaver, and Alfred Murphy. A fresh impulse was given to the 


studies of ‘the boys under Father William Delany, from the year: 


1870, and the College of St. Stanislaus scored well in the matricula- 
tion at the University of London, and also in the Irish Intermediate 
Examivations. But in the year 1886 it was considered wise to com- 
bine the teaching power of our two Colleges, which are not very far. 
apart, and to give further development to Clongowes, the Mother- 


House of the Society in Ireland. Large additions to the buildings. 


had been made by Father Eugene Browne, Father Robert Carbery, 


and other Rectors. On the 8th of April, 1866, a fire, caused by the- 


negligence of a plumber at work on the roof of the fine study hall 
erected by Father Aylmer, spread to the refectory underneath, and 
destroyed these rooms, with many valuable pictures, books and papers. 
A plentiful supply of water and efficient engines kept the fire within 
its original limit, and no danger to life or limb occurred. The loss 





12 The Irish Monthly. 


"was partly covered by insurance, and it was made the occasion of a 
practical proof of affection by former pupils of the College. The result 
has been highly beneficial to the elegance and efficiency of the col- 
legiate buildings. May it be the opening of a new era of prosperity 
fur dear old Clongowes under its present Rector, Father John Conmee. 

This sketch deals chiefly with places and persons. The places 
which remain still to be commemorated must have even scantier 
justice accorded to them. We have mentioned incidentally that the 
lfardwick Street day school was transferred to Belvidere House, No. 
6 Great Denmark Street, which in some of its internal decorations 
gives one some idea of the magnificence of the Irish nobility before 
the Union impoverished Dublin. Very fine school-rooms and a 
spacious lecture-hall and theatre have recently been built by the late 
Rector, Father Thomas Finlay. With the name of Belvidere— which 
is now attended by about three hundred boys, a large number for an 
Irish school-—we may link the names of some of its former Rectors, 
such as Father Meagher (uncle to the eloquent Thomas Francis 
Meagher, of,’48,,and afterwards General in the American Army); 
Father Francis Murphy, still teaching boys in St. Patrick's College, 
Melbourne ; and Father Michael O’Ferrall, who for some years after 
1864, helped our Fathers of the dispersed Sardinian Province in their 
prosperous exile near the Golden Gate. He died soon after his return 
from San Francisco. 

Father Edward Kelly, and Father Thomas Kelly, presided also 
over tlis establishment before and after Father Stanley Matthews, 
who died comparatively young ; but their work in the arduous office 
of Superior lay chiefly in Limerick. Their names, coupled with that 
of their eldest brother, Father William Kelly,—one of the founders 
of the Australian Mission, and still exercising his versatile gifts 
A.M.D.G. in New South Wales*—suggest a remark that has some- 
times been made. Is there any Province of the Society, even twice 
or thrice as large as Ireland, which has among its members so many 
pairs and triplets of brothers? We have just named three brothers. 
Of another name (Hughes) we have three also, and again two; and 
we have had two Fathers st. Leger, two Fathers Bellew, two Fathers 
Lynch, two Fathers Seaver, two Fathers Duffy, two Fathers Keating ; 
and we still have two Fathers Dalton, two Fathers Finlay, four 
Fathers Daly, two Fathers Colgan, and some other fraternal couples, 

* He has since been recalled to teach Hebrew and Scripture in the Theological 
Seminary opened recently at Milltown Park, near Dublin. Will it be indiscreet to 
udd in the seclusion of a footnote that the only other member of the fireside circle 
has been doing the holy work of a Sister of Mercy these thirty years in Perth, 
Western Australia, whither she bravely went from her uoviceship in the Mother 
House in Baggot Street. 


fish Jesuits since 1800. 13 


besides cousins galore, that is, to » factors. But these details may, 
perhaps, be beneath the dignity of the historic muse. 

8t. Munchin’s College (afterwards College of the Sacred Heart) 
was opened in Limerick, in March, 1859, with the cordial sanction of” 
the good old Bishop, Doctor Ryan. Father Edward Kelly was the first 
Reetor. The Church of the Sacred Heart was built by his successor, 
Father Thomas Kelly, and opened in 1868, the dedication sermon 
being preached by the holy and eloquent Dominican Bishopof Dromore, 
Doctor John Pius Leahy. The next Superior in Limerick was Father 
William Ronan, who is known in the United States for his exertions 
in establishing the Apostolic School at Mungret, near Limerick, in 
which very arduous task he was greatly encouraged by Doctor Ryan’s 
successor in the See of Limerick, Doctor George Butler. Dr. Butler 
died in the year, 1886, and has been succeeded by one of the first 
Limerick pupils of the Society, Doctor Edward O’I)wver. 

Our Galway house was opened about the same time as Limerick. 

Father Robert Haly was the first Superior, and his exertions had the 
chief part in building the Church of St. Ignatius in that interesting 
but not very prosperous town. With Galway should be linked the 
‘name of Father Michael Bellew, a man of singular holiness. His 
eldest brother, Sir Christopher Bellew, resigned his position in the 
world to become a very devout and humble member of the Society, 
dying on the 18th of March, 1867. Father Michael Bellew died on 
the 29th of October, 1868. 

A certain man of the world was once greatly struck by hearing: 
the ‘English Province of the Society’ spoken of. He was delighted 
with the idea of the world-wide Church looking down on haughty 
England as a mere province. To call Ireland a Province would not 
be judicious in a politician; but in the Society Ireland only rose to be 
a Province in the year 1860. Every such Province has a novitiate 
and a foreign mission attached to it. The Irish novitiate was opened 
im that year at Miltown Park, near Dublin, under the holy and 
learned Father Daniel Jones; but it had begun its great and most 
successful work as a House of Retreats in 1858, under Father 
Edmund O’Reilly,* who deserves pre-eminently the same two epithets 
we have bestowed on Father Jones. Father Jones’s successors, as 
Novice-Masters, were Father Sturzo, Father Charles McKenna, 
Father William O'Farrell, and the present Master of Novices, Fath r 

e Father O'Reilly died November 10th, 1878. The following issue of this. 
Magazine contained a sketch of his life, embodying some important testimonies to 
his great theological attainments, and his noble but most amiable character. ~ Our 
Magazine also furnished last year tome account of Father John O’Carroll, with 
some opinions expressed by experts as to his very remarkuble linguistic aptitudes. 
and attainments. 


eo 


14 The Irish Monthly. 


-John Colgan. On May 3rd, 1884, Feast of St. Joseph's Patronage, 
the novices were removed to Dromore, County Down, and subsequently 
to the appropriately named house of St. Stanislaus, Tullabeg, in Queen’s 
County. Very numerously attended retreats for priests and lay 
gentlemen are given through the whole course of the year at 
Milltown. 

The foreign mission assigned to the Irish Province is so congenial 
a field for the zeal of Irish hearts, that it requires some other name 
than foreign mission—which indeed is hardly a Jesuit word. The 
sons of St. Ignatius are at home everywhere, in quavis mundi plaga. 
A clever man has called the United States of America ‘Greater Britain.’ 
They might well be called ‘Greater Ireland ; ” and Australia, also, is 
for an Irish priest only Ireland transplanted. In July, 1865, Father 
Joseph Lentaigne and Father William Kelly left Dublin on their way 
to Melbourne. The wonderful progress made in twenty years, the 
many colleges and churches founded at Melbourne and Sydney, and 
their suburks, cannot be crushed into a paragraph. They have now 
‘thirty-six priests, several scholastics and lay brothers, and a novitiate. 
The Superiors of the Mission have been Fathers Joseph Dalton and 
Father Aloysius Sturzo. 

St. Patrick’s House of Residence of the Catholic University, 
Stephen’s Green, Dublin, was committed by the Bishops to- the care 
of the Society in 1873, the first Superior being the Rev. Thomas 
Keating, who has since died at Sydney. Under a new arrangement, 
the Catholic University College is conducted by the Jesuit Fathers, 
Father Delany being Vice-Rector since the 21st December, 1881, till 
he was succeeded by Father Carbery. 

Though we ommitted it at the proper place, we must not omit a]to- 
gether to mention the visit of Father Roothaan, the first General of the 
Society that ever set foot on Irish soil—though St. Ignatius did the next 
vest thing in sending us two of his first companions, Paschasius Brouet 
and Alphonsus Salmeron. ‘’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good,’ 
and the Italian Revolution wafted to our shores, perhaps, the greatest 
of the Generals since Claudius Aquaviva. He arrived in Dublin on 
the 19th of October, 1849, accompanied by Father Villefort of France, 
and Father Cobb of the English Province. He delighted and 
impressed everyone who came in contact with him, Of this we have 
a striking testimony in the first volume of the Jrish Annual Miscellany 
(afterwards called Zssays, chiefly Theological), by the Rev. Patrick 
Murray, D.D., Professor of Theology in Maynooth College. He devotes 
a long paper to an account of ‘Father Roothaan’s visit to Maynooth.’ 
On his part the illustrious visitor carried away the best impressions 
-of our little island. The crowds that thronged St. Francis Xavier's 








Trish Jesuits since 1800. '. 45 


Church in Dublin, even on week days, and the immense number of 
«-onfessions and communions delighted and edified him ; and at Avignon 
he remarked that our Church at Marseilles was the only rival 
he knew for Gardiner Street, Dublin.* He wrote back to Ireland 
from the Continent: ‘Multa ibi vidi et audivi que maximam mihi 
consolationem attulerunt.’ 

We have reluctantly put aside our intention of giving some details 
about certain of our Fathers gu: dormiunt tn somno pacts ; for space 
would fail, and it is often better to leave one’s self under the guilty 
consciousness of a duty undischarged than to make an utterly 
inadequate attempt at discharging it. The former course gives the 
duty a chance of being properly done hereafter. | 

One of the items in this catalogue raisonné of the Irish Province 
would have been Father John F french, uncle to the present Lord 
F french, who was Assistant at Rome from 1858 till his death in 1873, 
May 31st. He was a man of singular holiness, humility, patience and 
charity. Thirteen years later, his grave had for some cause to be 
opened, and his remains were found entire. One who had worked 
under him when he was Rector of St. Stanislaus’ College, Tullabeg— 
Father John Cunningham—died in 1858, in his forty-second year, 
leaving behind him a reputation for sanctity more than ordinary. 
The country folk used to scrape away the clay of his grave. Father 
Cunningham’s remains were afterwards taken up and buried in the 
(‘ollege Chapel. Another who ought to be mentioned is Father Henry 
J. Rorke, the first of that name which has several representatives in 
the Society, an impressive preacher, and a man of great influence on 
souls. 

Such are the facts which it has occurred to us to jot down con- 
cerning the Society of Jesus in Ireland since its restoration. Our 
inotives in drawing up this very simple sketch resemble those of the 
Cistercian monk who wrote the history of the monastery of Villars in 
in Brabant, which is given in the third volume of Marttne’s 
Thesaurus Novus Anecdotorum, He begins thus :— 


‘ Necessarium reor militaturis Deo in coenobio Villariensi diligenter 
describere qualiter ordo ibidem viguit, quamque copiosa benedictione 
person domus hujus complecte (?) fuerint, sicut seniorum nostrorum 
relatione didicimus, quatenus ii quos in seeculis superventuris divina 
gratia ad monasterium Villariense vocare dignabitur, si hanc parvitatis 


* Large additions and improvements have been made in the Residence and 
Church of St. Francis Xavier by one whose name is not forgotten in the United 
States by those whose recollections go back to the War—Father John Bannon. 
{Reversing Dickens's title, these Irish notes were meant for American circulation. ] 


16 En Attendant. 


nostree paginam legere dignum duxerint, considerantes quam nobili 
regum mammilla lactati sint, erubescant filij degeneres inveniri.’ 


If this account had to be written in Latin, and if in the foregoing: 
paragraph Provincia Hibernia were substituted for Monastertum 
Pillariense, with what more appropriate words could our sketch have 
begun? Let it end with them, therefore. 


EN ATTENDANT. 


TRS morning there were dazzling drifts of daisies in the meadows, 
On sunny slopes the celandines were glittering like gold, 
Across the bright and breezy world ran shifting shine and shadow, 
The wind blew warmly from the west. Now all is changed and cold. 
TTe’s half an hour late, 
While here I watt and wart. 
Well! It 18 just my fate— 
Too plainly I can see 
He never cared for me. 
How cruel men can be ! 


I wish those daffodils out there would cease their foolish flutter, 
And keep their bobbing yellow heads for just a second still. 
My eyes ache so!’ Would someone please to partly close the shutter, 
And move those hateful hyacinths from off the window-sill ? 
He's half an hour late, 
No longer I shall wast. 
Hark, there's the garden gate ! 
Love, ta this you at last ? 
fh, do not be dotoncast— 
I knew the clocks were fast. 
Frances WYNNE. 





17 


MOLLY’S FORTUNES. 
CHAPTER XXVI. 


HOME AGAIN. 


T was a very white-cheeked, weary-looking Molly who stood on 
the deck of the Munster, as it slowly steamed into Kingstown 
Harbour. In obedience to many a hasty “ By your leave,” or “ Beg 
your pardon,” from bustling sailors and excited travellers, she had 
retired to one side, and, leaning against the paddle-box, looked on 
absently at the general bustle and confusion. Why on earth was 
everyone in such a hurry? she wondered; surely they would all 
land soon enough ; what was there to make such a fuss about ? 

At last the boat was still, and people began to pour across the 
gangway. Molly waited till the last straggler had pushed past her, 
and then, having secured the services of the ship’s cook to carry her 
small packages, proceeded leisurely ashore. She almost fell against 
Mrs. Mackenzie, who was about to rush on board in search of 
her. | 
“ Here she in!” she cried, ecstatically. ‘‘ Gracious, child, what a 
fright you gave us! We thought you hadn't come. Mr. Burke, #r. 
Burke, here she is, here’s Molly." Now, have you got your luggage? 
Where’s your ticket? Mind you do not leave your small packages 
behind.” ! 

“Dear auntie, you are the same as ever,” said Molly, kissing her 
with a sudden remorseful warmth. She herself felt so different from 
what she had been on leaving, that she almost expected to find a 
like change in everybody else. It was refreshing to find Mrs. 
Mackenzie so exactly ‘‘ herself.” 

“Well, would you tell me what else did you suppose I shoulil 


be?” cried the latter, pausing, heedless of the bustle around her, to 
interrogate Molly, her eyes opened to the fullest extent, her mouth 


screwed up into a little round button of astonishment. 

“ Oh there! never mind, never mind,” ejaculated Mr. Burke, 
with masculine exasperation. ‘‘Get into the train, and do your 
talking there.” 

Molly and her aunt obeyed, the former’s small baggage was put 
in, Mrs. Mackenzie subsequently hanging out of the window, heed- 
leas of Mr. Burke’s assurances that such a proceeding was quite 

Vou. xvi. No. 199. 61 





18 The Irish Monthly. 


unnecessary, to ‘‘make sure” that the heavy luggage was not left 
behind. Finding that ho one heeded her frantic efforts to attract 
attention, she clutched hold of a porter who happened to be standing 
within reach of her arm, and entered into a detailed description 
of Molly’s boxes, begging he would Atmself put them into the 
train. . 

“ Sure its the company manages it, ma’am,” he replied, removing 
the straw which he had been chewing from his mouth, and gazing at 
her in apparent amusement. ‘‘It’s them does it intirely, and if ye 
was the Lord Liftenant himself, wid Dublin Castle at his back, ye 
musn’t dar’ interfere.” . 

“ Do you mean to tell me we cannot claim our own property ?” 
asked Mrs. Mackenzie, somewhat daunted by this dark allusion to the 
higher powers, and puzzled by the.metaphor which suggested to her 
mind’s eye a sort of vice-regal snail. 

“ Bedad, it’s the company does it,” repeated the man, replacing 
his straw, and walking away. A minute later the whistle sounded, 
and the train went off. 

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, slowly withdrawing her head, 
“if he was speaking the truth now. There was something in his eye I 
didn’t like. Well, I suppose we must trust to chance. Now let 
me look at you, Molly. Dear me! I can’t say you are looking 
well.” 

‘Neither can L” observed Mr. Burke, in the severely dis- 
approving tone usually adopted under such circumstances; ‘‘she 
looks anything but well. What have you been doing to yourself, 
child ? ” 

‘“‘T’m go tired,” pleaded poor Molly. How can you expect me to 
look otherwise? I shall be all right when I have rested.” 

‘‘ Of course, of course,” agreed her aunt. “ Well, tell me Molly ”— 
lowering her voice that their fellow-passengers might not overhear 
-her—“ weren't you very much surprised at the turn affairs have taken ? 
What did you say when you first heard ? ” 

“I was very much surprised,” answered the girl faintly; she 
felt too much dazed and exhausted to think of a more original 
phrase. 

é And weren't you delighted?” continued Mrs. Mackenzie. ‘‘Cer- 
tainly you are a lucky girl. I never knew anyone so fortunate. Who 
could have supposed when you went away, and we were all so miserable, 
that everything would end so happily? I am so pleased, I don’t 
know what to do with myself. Aren’t you happy? Isn't it delightful 
to think that all your drudgery is over, and that you need never go 
back to that odious chatto again ? ” 








Moll/ a Fortunes. 19 


Poor Molly tried hard to say something in token of the satisfaction 
she was so far from feeling, but the words stuck in her throat, and 
at last she took refuge in her former excuse of being so tired—so very 
tired : to-morrow she would be able to talk more. 

She lay back in her corner and closed her eyes, hoping to avoid 
further questioning, but she felt the while that her friends were 

exchanging anxious glances, and making telegraphic signs to each 
other, expressive of amazement and distress. After a few minutes, 
therefore, she opened her eyes again, and sat up, resolving.if possible 
to divert their attention from herself. 

“How is Hugh?” she asked, languidly. 

“Eh? oh, your cousin? wonderfully well, a new man in fact 
since he made that discovery. He has acted very well, hasn't he?” 
Thus Mr Burke in tones of patronizing approval. 

“Very,” agreed Molly, cordially. 

‘* He intends to call this evening, to see how you are after your 
journey,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, transfixing her niece with that loving, 
eager—too eager—glance of hers. ‘‘ Poor fellow, he will be shocked 
to find you such a wreck. I daresay though you will be too tired to 
see him.” 

“Oh, no I shan’t,” returned the girl, with a sudden access of 
animation. “I wish you would ask him to stay for dinner. I should 
like to see him—he has behaved go well. I want to tell him so, and 
to say how—grateful I am.” . 

She felt that the presence of the good, babbling little man would 
be an unspeakable relief. Before him no embarrassing questions 
would be asked, and politeness would forbid the expressions of rapture 
over her altered circumstances, which she found so hard to listen to, 

and so impossible to share. 

When Hugh arrived, therefore, he was quite flattered at the 
pressing invitation which he received from Mrs. Mackenzie, and the 
warmth with which her niece seconded it. But in spite of all 
Molly’s efforts, and of Hugh’s unfailing flow of conversation, the 
evening was melancholy enough, and the latter withdrew at an early 
hour. 

Molly hastened to bid good-night to the other two also, and retired, 
telling her aunt she meant to go to bed at once: the truth being that 
she was sorely afraid the latter might follow her to her room, to 
resume her astonished inquiries. 

“I know I am very ungrateful and unkind,” she thought remorse- 
fully, “ but I couldn't bear it to-night.”’ 

Left to themselves, her aunt and the lawyer stared at each other in 
blank dismay. Neither spoke for some moments, but the same thought 


20 | The Irish Monthly. 


was in both their hearts: what could be the matter with the 
child ? | 

“ Perhaps she is only tired,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, all at once. 

‘‘ Perhaps,” assented Mr. Burke, dubiously. 

“DJ find out to-morrow, anyhow,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, endea- 
vouring to reanimate her courage. 

“ I beg you'll do nothing of the sort,” retorted the lawyer sharply. 
“Take my advice and leave her alone, ma’am. Don’t ask any 
questions, and don’t pretend to think there is anything amiss: that 
is the best chance for her. And then we must distract her thoughts 
as much as possible—the sooner we get her down to Castle O'Neill 
the better.” 

‘‘Mr. Burke,” whispered the lady, whose eyes had been growing 
round with awestruck wonder during this speech, “ do you think—is. 
it possible that Molly could be in love ?”’ 

‘‘Bless my soul, how can I tell?” retorted her friend testily. 
‘What do I know about love? I think Dll say good-bye now. 
Don’t ask any questions, that’s all—and get her out of this as soon as. 
possible.”’ 

Two days afterwards Molly and her aunt set out for Castle 
O’Neill. The girl felt an odd mixture of pain and pleasure as she 
alighted at the railway station, being rapturously greeted by the few 
old officials. Her own carriage was waiting for them, the fat coach- 
man turning round with a beaming face to bid her welcome. As she 
drove through the familiar country, lovely even on this dull, wintry 
day, she felt almost in a dream. How sad she had been a few short 
months before, saying good-bye to these beautiful scenes, these kindly . 
people; and now she was coming back, never, in all probability, to 
leave them for any length of time again; and oh, how little the 
prospect elated her, how heavy was the weight dragging at -her 
heart ! 

When they were at a short distance from the lodge, a queer 
medley of sounds was heard; fiddles squeaking, drums beating, a 
babel of voices, which every now and then swelled to a great 
roar. 

The coachman whipped up his horses, and in another moment they 
came in sight of a dense crowd. Molly’s people had flocked from far 
and near to welcome her home; banners were waving, children were 
clapping their hands, triumphal arches were erected, the gateway 
being spanned by one of colossal size, on which the inscription 
- Cead mille fatlthe was set forth in letters of flowers. Hver and 
anon came the hoarse shout from hundreds of throats: “ Hurrah, 
hurrah.” 





Holly’s Fortunes. . 21 


_ When Molly’s equipage was seen approaching, the enthusiasm 
knew no bounds. The temperance band from the neighbouring 
market-town struck up “Come back to Erin,” which had been 
unanimously voted appropriate to the occasion, the fifes occasionally 
faltering, but the vigour of the drums leaving nothing to be desired. 
The schoolmistress led forward her little troop of rosy-faced, white- 
clad children, one of whom carried a large bouquet in her chubby 
hands. The oldest tenant on the estate placed himself in a command- 
ing position near the gate, and pompously unfolded a roll of parch- 
ment, on which a congratulatory address was blazoned. He could not 
read, but that was of no consequence; he had learned his speech 
by heart, and the steward was at his elbow to prompt him. But the 
hubbub was so great when the carriage drew up before the entrance, 
that not a word could be distinguished ; even the fifes were drowned, 
though the faces of the players grew purple with their efforts, only 
the thump, thump, thump, of the big drum dominated the general 

“Hip, hip, hurrah!” shouted the people; scores of hands were 

thrust out to clasp Molly’s; caubeens were tossed wildly in the air, 

many of them falling into the carriage, and being gingerly fished out 
and dropped over the side by Mrs. Mackenzie, whose face wore an ex- 
pression of intense astonishment. Meanwhile, Molly had been smiling 
and nodding, shaking hands, and trying to say a few words in token 

" of gratitude; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes full of tears. 

Presently Mr. Burke elbowed his way through the crowd. 

“Come, come, there has been enough of this,” he said, after 
a glance at her face. “Miss Mackenzie is both pleased and grate- 
ful, and hopes to spend many happy years amongst you. Stand back 
now—stand back. Drive on, coachman!”’ 

Drive on, indeed! There was a dive at the astonished horses, a 
sudden, simultaneous unstrapping and unbuckling of harness, a vision 
of apparently endless ropes, and Molly found herself advancing at a 
rapid rate towards the Castle, drawn by about fifty of her tenants. 

“IT am sure it is most gratifying, isn’tit?” said Mrs. Mackenzie, 
who had now recovered herself in some degree, leaning back in the 
carriage, and bowing right and left in a queenly manner. “ You 
should be a very happy girl.” 

But Molly did not answer; she was struggling to preserve her 
composure, which was soverely tried by the exuberant rapture 
around her. She was touched, grateful, fully responsive to the 
affection lavished on her, but—happy! Oh, for a certain careworn 
face, for the clasp of somebody’s strong, brown hand! ‘What was all 
this seeming triumph, when her heart within her felt dead ? 


22 The Irish Monthly. 


The anxiety of Molly’s friends did not lessen as time wore on; 
indeed her health threatened to suffer from her pent-up sorrow. She 
could tell no one what was troubling her; the reservo which had 
prevented her speaking her mind fully to the man she loved, cut her 
off still more effectually from other people. Many a time, looking back 
on her last interview with Raoul, she bewailed that unfortunate 
reticence. 

‘If I could only have spoken!” she would say to herself. ‘If I 
had been a little braver. When I knew he loved me, there should 
have been no false shame, To think we were there together, loving 
each other so much, and that one word would havé made us both 
happy for all our lives—and I did not say it! Both our lives ruined 
for want of one word! Oh, it is maddening—maddening !”’ 

Sometimes she would wonder dimly if he suffered as much as she 
did ; it was true she had seen the anguish in his face at the moment 
of their parting, an anguish which she could not bear to remember 
even now; but he, at least, had no idea that he was sacrificing her; 
he acted from a noble motive; while she knew of his love, and sacri- 
ficed him to her girlish timidity. 

“ But surely he might have known—he might have guessed how 
much I loved him too,” she-said to herself once, with a sudden burst 
of piteous sobbing. ‘Ah, if he had only trusted me a little more, if 
he had only understood how paltry everything in the world is com- 
pared to love.” 

Many a good girl suffers for a like cause; her whole life blighted 
through the scruples of a too honourable man. His position does not 
allow him to come forward, his poverty obliges him to hide his 
feelings—as if any woman worth her salt would weigh such trifles 
against his honest love! I say trifles—for trifles they are when 
the affections are thoroughly engaged. What is the loss of a 
few luxuries, or what mighty sacrifice after all is entailed in the 
exchange (let us say) of the name of Vere de Vere for Smith? and 
how much is the loneliness, the regret, the hopeless longing to which 
the punctilious lover has condemned her. He, meanwhile, amid all 
his sorrow, hugs himself at the thought of his own disinterestedness, 
is glad that he has had the strength to sacrifice himself, and does 
not wot that he has sacrificed her too. Injustice is too often perpe- 
trated under cover of this same much-lauded self-sacrifice; in their 
Own pain, people are blind to the suffering of others, or, when conscious 
ofit, only appear to consider it from their own point of view, as increas- 
ing their personal misery, and rendering their struggle more hard. 
Sooth to say, even outsiders are prone to look at matters in this 
same light, and, in their sympathy with the sacrificer, to overlook 


Molly’s Fortunes. 7 23 


the sacrificed. In our admiration for Abraham, for instance, we 
are apt to forget that the sensations of Isaac when bound upon 
the wood must have been far from pleasant, and that ‘sublime as was 
the courage of the father, there was no small heroism in the sub- 
mission of the son. 

Mrs. Mackenzie and Mr. Burke, after many consultations and 
much thought, resolved that Molly must be “roused” at any cost. 
And as life at Castle O’Neill did not seem to rouse her—conscien- 
tiously as she set about her duty, and persistently as she carried out 
her former routine—they decided that. she must go away for.the re- 
mainder of the winter. 

“Where?” said Molly, drearily, when this idea was broached to 
her.” 

“To London, or abroad if you prefer it; Rome, Cannes, Paris—you 
ean have your choice.” 

“ Paris!” cried the girl, with sudden animation. ‘‘ Yes, I think 
I should like to go to Paris.”’ 

She could not, of course, seek out Raoul, but to be on the same 
side of the Channel, inthe same country with him, was always some- 
thing. And then who knew—is it not the property of youth to hope 
against hope?—business might take him to Paris, and if she was 
staying there they might meet. 

And so to Paris they went, Molly and her aunt, and though, to 
the latter’s surprise, the girl did not seem to care for shopping, and 
was not particularly eager about sight-seeing, she was undoubtedly 
roused and interested. They would perambulate the principal squares 
and boulevards, till the elder lady declared she was ready to drop ; for, 
strangely enough, Molly never seemed to care about driving—and oh ! 
how hopeless it was after all! Of course she did not see Raoul, she 
did not even come in contact with Gaston, though once she thought 
she caught sight of somebody very like him driving with a lady. 

Then she proposed to her aunt to make a little tour through 
Normandy ; it was rather early in the season to be sure, but she 
was tired of Paris. 

So they wandered through certain quaint old towns, Mrs Mackenzie 
not finding much to admire in the narrow streets, and dim majestic 
churches, though the picturesque charm of the former and the solemn 
heauty of the latter would have gladdened Molly’s heart, had it not 
been too full of other things. She went as near as she dared to Vire, 
always hoping by some extraordinary chance to meet Raoul, but 
always hoping in vain. 

‘‘T suppose I must make up my mind never to see him again,” 
she sighed, worn out at last by long expectation and perpetually re- 





24 The Irish Monthly. 


newed disappointment. “TI cannot find him, and he will not try to 
find me.” | 

One day, therefore, she suddenly asked her aunt to take her home. 
She had neglected her duties too long as it was, and wanted to return 
to them at once. 

Castle O’Neill was looking very lovely on the afternoon on which 
they returned ; it was early in Spring, and everything was beginning 
to bud and blossom. The young lambs were just at the pretty stage 
of their existence ; the birds were very busy with their nests; plough- 
ing, and sowing, and potato sbtting were in full force; in fact, every- 
thing about the place was astir, and full of life. 

“ I must take up my life too,” thought the girl, as she sat down in 
her own room to rest after her arrival. ‘‘I must begin to live for 
others ; after all I am only a unit in this great big world ; my unhap- 
piness is only an unimportant item in the sum of human sorrow. 
But here I may be much ; I am the pivoton which many lives turn. 
I must remember that, and do my very best: Castle O’Neill expects 
Molly Mackenzie to do her duty.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 
A LOVE TOKEN. 


Presently the housemaid entered with a great bundle of letters on 
a salver. Molly’s movements had been too uncertain during the past 
few weeks to admit of their being sent on. 

“This registered parcel came a fortnight ago, Miss,” said the 
woman, laying a small packet on the table. 

Molly glanced at it, and the colour rushed to her face. It bore 
the Vauxmoncour postmark, and was addressed in the countess’s 
cramped writing. And stay! There were one, two letters, from her 
too. What could she have written about? Molly had despatched a 
note to her on first arriving at Castle O’Neill; but she had taken no 
notice of it, and the girl inferred she did not want to keep up a cor- 
respondence with her. 

As soon as the housemaid had left the room, Molly, with trembling 
fingers, broke open one of the letters, which was written on thin, 
crackling paper, and sealed with an immense coronet. 





Molly’s Fortunes. 25 


It proved to be an appeal for help. Madame de Treilles required 
a certain sum of money at once, and knew not to whom to apply. 
For certain reasons she did not wish her brother to know of her 
necessity, and, therefore, had no choice but to sacrifice her jewellery. | 
She was, therefore, sending by that post the few ornaments which 
remained to her, begging her dear Miss Mackenzie (should she not 
wish herself to become the purchaser of them), to dispose of them as 
soon as possible, and to remit her the equivalent. There was, in par- 
ticalar, a certain medallion, a miniature curiously set, by which the 
writer set great store, it having originally belonged to her great- 
grandmother, a demoiselle de Rohan, who had married a foreigner. 
This heirloom had belonged to the eldest daughter of the house for 
four successive generations, and its present owner was navrée de douleur 
at the thought of its passing into the hands of strangers. Perhaps 
Miss Mackenzie, touched by her grief, would be good enough to be- 
«ome at least the temporary purchaser of it; and if at any future time 
the countess found herself in a position to do so, she would hasten to 
reimburse her. 

“Poor thing,” thought Molly, sorrowfully. “I suppose her son 
has been at his old work. How much trouble he has brought on them 
all! She does not mention Raoul, and I suppose I mustn’t 
either. Of course her writing to me is to be kept a profound secret 
from him; he would never forgive her if he knew—and yet I am so 
glad to help her.” 

Sighing, she opened the other letter, which bore the date of only 
two days before, and which was conceived in a very different strain. 
Madame la Comtesse was surprised at not hearing from Molly sooner, 
her anxiety at the time of her last letter demanding a more speedy 
response—but it imported little. All her maternal solicitude was at 
an end; her son was about to make a splendid alliance, and would 
now be provided for without her aid. She would confide to her dear 
friend, that it was on his account she had been so anxious to obtain a 
little money. Now there was no longer the same urgent necessity, 
though, if Miss Mackenzie would have the gentillesse to become the tem- 
porary purchaser of the jewels already sent to her, the sum advanced 
would be very useful for current expenses. After her son’s marriage 
Madame la Comtesse would be able to repay her. She would not 
conceal from her dear, sympathetic young friend that she was “au 
comble de sa joie.” It was such a marriage as she had scarcely 
dared to hope for. Everything was perfect: fortune, rank, relations. 
She had made enquiries about the young lady, and ascertained that 
her health was good, that she was of an amiable disposition, and was 
in appearance quite presentable. Gaston was aur anges, not, as he 


- nN 





26 The Irish Monthly. 


had written to his mother, on account of his fiancée’s colossal fortune, 
but because on that account his union with her became possible. Had 
she been poor, as he said, his own poverty would have forbidden him 
to address her, but, thanks to her dot, he was enabled to do so; he only 
valued it on that account. He had loved her long, and love equalised 


all things: ‘‘a true man’s heart was worth all the money in the 


world.”’ 

Here Molly suddenly laid down the letter, and laughed till she 
almost cried. Gaston was ¢mpayadle. Certainly he knew how to make 
his stock phrases serve him on every occasion. There was much 


more to the same effect ; a postcript, begging Molly to be so good as to. 


return the medallion mentioned in a former letter, as the writer did 
not wish it to be included in the trinkets which were to pass for the 
time being out of her hands. 

Molly was unfeignedly glad at the countess’s news. She trusted 


that ‘‘the colossal fortune,” of which, with the trifling addition of . 


the healthy, amiable, and quite presentable young lady, the count was 
soon to become the owner, would in some degree ameliorate the condition 
of things at La Pépiniére. Raoul would at least be free from constant 
anxiety about his nephew, his purse would no longer be drained, and 
it was to be presumed, that Gaston would supply “ the mother whom 
he adored” with the little luxuries which were now provided at so 
great a cost. Inthe meantime, Molly was delighted, for the countess’s 
sake, to transact a little amateur pawnbroking, for to such the latter's 
request that she would become the ‘‘ temporary purchaser” of her 
trinkets, virtually amounted. However, the little formula saved 
Madame de Treilles’ self-respect, which would have shrunk from 
openly asking her to lend her money, and the girl was only too glad 
to keep it up. 

She drew the parcel towards her, and opened it tenderly and 
compassionately ; it must have been hard for poor Madame la Com- 
tesse to part with her little treasures. There they lay, carefully packed 
‘in a sandal-wood box ; a few rings, a bracelet or two, an old fashioned 
pair of fine diamond earrings—not very much to represent a fine lady's 
jewellery. Probably the rest had been already disposed of. At the 
hottom, in a little case of its own, was the much talked of pendant. A 
really beautiful miniature, set in a sort of scroll, very finely worked 
with alternate trefoils of emeralds and diamonds. The painting re- 
presented a young man; his dress, as much of if as could be seen, 
being apparently of the last century. The expression of the face, in- 
déed the whole thing was strangely familiar to Molly. Where had she 
seen it before? Had the countess over worn it during her stay at the 
chateau? Never—of that she was sure; it was Madame de Treilles” 

















Molly’s Fortunes. . 7 


custom to eschew ornaments of every kind. Where, then, could she 
have seen it ? 

She turned it over curiously. On the back was a quaintly designed 
monogram, surmounted by fanciful arabesques, with, underneath, 
some words engraved in extremely small characters. What a strange 
business it was ; somehow Molly seemed to recognise the monogran, 
and to expect the arabesques to be there! 

She carried the locket to the light, and slowly deciphered the finy 
words :— 

**A.S.deR. Gage d’amour.” 

The monogram in the middle was formed of the letters R. O. N., 
perhaps R. 0’N. Was that little flourish meant for an apostrophe. 
or was it merely an appendage to the central letter? R.O’N.! 
Molly’s hand shook so much that she well-nigh dropped the precious 
trinket. She rushed across the room, and taking a jewel-case out of 
her wardrobe, began hurriedly to search among its contents. A suddon 
idea had struck her—a mad and ridiculous idea of course—that she 
might have seen such an ornament with Miss O’Neill. Was not that 
bracelet, for instance, which she used to wear sometimes, set with some- 
what similar medallions? Now that she thought of it, was not one of 
the miniatures missing, and had not Miss O'Neill said once that if it 
were ever found in the possession of anyone calling himself O’Neill, 
she would deem it likely that he belonged to Aer family. And this 
had originally been the property of a de Rohan, who had married a 
foreigner—perhaps an Irishman, an O'Neill. 2. O'N.—why thoso 
initials might stand for Roderick O’Neill! Most of the male O’Neiils 
of the elder line were Rodoricks, just as the scions of the younger were 
Hughs. And in that case Madame de Treilles would be descende:l 
from the O’Neills, and Raoul would be “Oh, I am a goose t» 
dream of it! It is absurd, impossible! Still I may as well convine» 
myself that I am wrong.” 

The jewel-case contained poor Miss O’Neill’s favourite ornaments, 
which Molly had put away carefully after her death, and which had 
not been touched since. Sbe unlocked it tremulously, and took out 
its contents one by one. Here was the bracelet. Her fingers bungled 
curiously over the spring, but the velvet case was open at last, and. 
Molly could place Madame de Treilles’ miniature between the other 
two. A beautiful rosy colour—the flush of intense joy—overspread 
her hitherto pale face. The central medallion represented a young 
man, and the others contained girlish heads, but in other respects the 
three were precisely alike. ‘The paintings were evidently by the sanic 
hand, the style being identical; moreover, there was a strong family 
likenees in the three young faces, and the self-same simper sat on all 





28 The Irish Monthly. 


the painted lips ; the setting was similar in every particular, and the 
fanciful monogram on the back altered only in a single letter of each— 
J.O’N., M. O’N., and now R. O’N. 

“ What does it mean?” said Molly to herself; “let me think— 
what can it mean ?” 

This was the missing miniature, of that there could be no doubt ; 
it had been in the possession of the Sauvignys for four generations, 
having been originally brought into the family by Mademviselle 
Sophie de Rohan, who had married a foreigner. Suppose a certain 
Roderick O'Neill had left his country about the end of the last cen- 
tury, had joined one of the Irish brigades—as Miss O'Neill said so many 
of her family had done—and had had chanced to be that identical 
foreigner? What more likely than that he should present his fiancée 
with his own portrait, yielded up for the purpose (it may be unwil- 
lingly) by his mother or some of his feminine belongings? If this 
were the case, why Raoul could prove his descent from the O’Neills 
of Castle O’Neill, his grandmother being doubtless the daughter of 
Roderick of that ilk. Raoul would have the right to claim everything 
at present in Molly’s possession, the right to claim Molly herself, if he 
were so minded —Raoul was the heir! 

Suddenly she fell on her knees, sobbing out a broken prayer of 
thanksgiving, and covering the little miniature with kisses ; a slender 
link indeed on which to hang so great a chain of evidence, but Molly 
felt it all-sufficient. Gage d'amour /” Oh, blessed words! did they say 
half as much to that pretty prim young demoiselle long ago, as they 
did to this Irish nineteenth century maiden ? Did she ever weep such 
passionate tears over them, or repeat them with such rapturous joy? 
Gage d’amour—a love-token indeed, a pledge that the barrier which 
had so long separated her and Raoul must now perforce be done 
away with, that the silence which both deemed themselves bound to 
observe must be broken at last. 

Oh, dear, clever, good Miss O’Neill, how inspired she had been to 
make such a will! how wonderfully wise to word it in just such a man- 
ner! Raoul, as a man of honour, would have been almost bound to 
give Molly the option of refusing him, even had he never hitherto seen 
her; but under present circumstances—“ Oh, thank God, thank God,” 
she sobbed over and ever again; and presently Mrs Mackenzie was 
surprised out of something very like a nap, by a rushing figure burst- 
ing into her room, and an ecstatic cry :— 

“ Oh, auntie, I am so happy! I haven't a penny in the world that 
I can call my own.”’ 

Mr. Burke, hastily summoned on the following day, heard Molly’s 
story with anything but rapture, and advised her, testily enough, to 
put her ridiculous theories out of her head. 


Molly a Fortunes. 29: 


“Let your count or baron, or whatever he is, hunt up his inherit- 
ance for himself if he wantsit. J never heard anything so absurd in 
my life; I am certainly not going to allow you to be disturbed on the- 
evidence of a trumpery bauble that may have changed hands a dozen 
times after it ieft possession of the O’Neills.” 

“é Yes but it hasn't, dear Mr Burke,” urged Molly eagerly; ‘it has 
been in Monsieur de Sauvigny’s family for generations ; I feel—I know 
he can prove his rights. Oh, I do so want him to be the heir,” she 
cried, clasping her hands. 

“Do you, indeed,” said Mr Burke, softening a little, but still very 
much put out. 

“ Yes, and I want you to prove it for him,” pleaded Molly very 
gently. 

‘* Upon my. word I’ll do no such thing,” declared the lawyer, red-' 
dening with indignation. ‘‘One would think I had nothing else to do. 
but hunt up people’s grandmothers. First there was yours—no, I 
believe yours was a grandfather, that makes it a dttle more respect- 
able ; then two, no less, for Hugh, one spurious and one real; and now 
this Frenchman’s. I tell you what it is, Molly, I draw the line here; 
a French grandmother is a little too strong—the last straw breaks the. 
eamel’s back, you know.” 

-* Oh, please, dear Mr Burke,” petitioned Molly, half laughing and 
half crying, “just this one more. You shall never, never be asked to 
find another.” 

“ And who do you suppose I shall find to send to France?” he 
grumbled. ‘It is not everyone who would be equal to this. 
jo .? 

é 1 want you to go yourself,” said the girl simply. ‘Don’t think 
me very exacting, but really I would trust no one but you. Itisa 
very delicate matter, and must be carefully dealt with. I want you 
to spare no pains, to leave no stone unturned—oh,” cried Molly, in a 
voice trembling with earnestness, ‘‘I can’t tell you how much I have 
this businesa at heart.” 

“Well, well,” sighed Mr Burke, a sudden moisture dimming for 
a moment his sharp little eyes, “a wilful woman must have her way, 
Isappose. I'll go and examine this gentleman, and see if he has a 
mole on the small of his back, and a strawberry mark on his left 
arm—the infallible means of identifying the rightful heir to a pro- 
perty, I believe, when he chances to be mislaid, as at present. Having 
the antique ornament ready to hand is a great point—only it should 
have a secret spring in it to be quite correct. Now all we want is a 
‘casket,’ —emphasizing the word with withering scorn—‘‘and a 
score or two of letters, for the romance to be complete.” 


30 The Irish Monthly. 


“I daresay you will find letters enough at La Pépiniére. I wish 
you wouldn’t laugh like that—it looks as if you did not believe in 
my theory, and yet everything is so clear.” 

“é Why didn’t your Frenchman recognise the name of O'Neill, and 
realise that you were a connection of his family, I should like to 
know ?” grumbled the lawyer, turning a little testy again as Molly 
waxed more and more eager. 

“ Because I never had occasion to speak of it. I only alluded to 
Miss O’Neill once, and then it did not occur to me to mention her 
name.” 

After a little more parleying, and many hints from Molly as to 
the best manner of carrying out his difficult task, Mr Burke consented 
to set out at once for Chatean de la Pépiniére, there to make enquiries, 
to overhaul the family papers, and, if Molly’s theory proved correct, 
to announce to Raoul that an inheritance awaited him. 

“You will be sure to make him understand everything, won't, 
you?” said Molly diffidently, as he rose to go—‘‘I mean, all about 
Miss O’Neill’s will, and—and the conditions, you know.” 

“ Don't, be afraid,” returned her friend drily, “Tl make him 
understand. Am I to infer, then, that you for your part are not un- 
willing ——? Ah, the little hussy ! she’s gone.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 
ARCADIA. 


The result of Mr Burke’s researches was eminently satisfactory to 
Molly. The bridegroom who had some six score years before led 
Mademoiselle Sophie de Rohan to the altar, proved in truth to be 
Roderick O’Neill, Lieutenant in the Irish Brigade, which fought so 
bravely under Lord Clare. Raoul’s grandmother, on the mother’s 
side, was the only daughter of this couple, a posthumous child, born 
after her father was slain in battle. Documentary evidence of these 
facts was found amongst the papers which Raoul put at the lawyer’s 
disposition, and there was also, as Molly had suggested, a consider- 
able number of letters, which would have furnished additional proof 


had such been required. 
The girl's inferences were, therefore, entirely correct, and that 











Molly’s Fortunes. 31 


which she so ardently desired turned out to be the case: Raoul 
de Sauvigny was the heir of Castle O'Neill. 

Apparently Mr. Burke succeeded in making him understand his 
position very thoroughly, for a long letter soon found its way to 
Molly, a letter which she read on her knees, and which was carried 
about all day next her heart, and at night laid under her pillow. 
Innocent, tender, foolish young love! of what extravagances is it not 
capable! Very shyly, very happily, did she set about her answer to 
this missive, and after writing and tearing up about a dozen, she des- 
patched one which only contained a single word: Come / 

And so he came. Partly in remembrance of her girlish dream 
and partly te secure undisturbed privacy, Molly awaited him in the 
old garden, leaving directions that on his arrival he was to be sent to 
find her there. a 

It was then mid-April, the loveliest time of the lovely spring. A 
thousand delicate, pale-hued flowers, brightened the terraces and 
tilled the hollow beneath ; lilac trees, white and coloured, bent beneath 
their load of bloom, a few little pink buds of the monthly roses 
already shone out amid the vivid green that hung over the arched 
gateway, and yonder, foaming up behind the ruined castle, was an 
ocean of exquisite fruit blossom, white, and creamy, and tenderest 
shell-pink. Molly’s favourites, the birds, were piping a jubilant 
bridal-song, each doubtless celebrating his own particular rapture, 
yet apparently casting in his mite of ecstacy to swell the sum of 
her immeasurable joy. The leaves were dancing in a gleeful 
breeze ; the sun was shining over all. Oh, this ancient world of ours, 
how it blossoms still! oh, spring, how ever fresh, how ever new, 
how ever welcome is it, even after a thousand winters! oh love, the 
old, old story, will it ever pall on us, though countless times retold ! 
And, oh love, and youth, and spring-time altogether, what an Eden 
do ye make of this work-a-day world ! 

So Molly watched and waited at the gilded gate, and at last she 
heard Raou’s footfall in the distance. Tooshy to run to mect him, she 
stood clasping the topmost bars, her blushing, expectant face peer- 
ing down. How wonderful was the fulfilment of that former day- 
dream of hers: this was the wayfarer coming, the worn and weary 
wayfarer, who here was to find rest and comfort for evermore. 

Now his figure was discerned rapidly approaching under the stately 
colonnade of yews ; on he came, awhile in shadow, now in light, step- 
ping forth at last into the full blaze of sunshine. 

But stay! was this her wayfarer? A great rush of wondering 
delight swept over Molly’s heart, so transformed, so transfigured was 
the face upturned to meet hers. He paused for a moment, looking 





32 The Irish Monthly. 


at her. The feathered orchestra piped louder, and louder, and the 
breeze tossed the lilac blossoms hither and thither, and waves of 
the sweet spring scents were wafted to them from the garden be- 
low—but Raoul was only conscious of Molly. 

“Child,” he said breathlessly, ‘“‘is ita dream? Tell me, is ita 
dream ?”’ 

“Yes, it is a dream,” answered *Molly, with sweet, tremulous 
laughter. ‘This is a dream-world. Do you not know ?—it is Ar- 
cadia, Raoul.’ 

And then—‘‘oh, love!” he cried, with swift impetuous, strides 
lessening the distance between them,—“ love, let me in!” 

M. E. Francis. 


THE END. 


COMRADES. 


I. 


TRE stars sent forth a holy light, 
The bells were chiming clear,— 

Back swung the portals of the Night 
And showed the fair New Year. 


In midst of snowy rays, the pure 
All-spotless youth delayed, 

As of his present home secure— 
Of coming half-afraid. 


With timid eyes to pierce he strove 
The mystery of the glooms, 

His hand still lingered, with his love, 
"Mid paradisal blooms. 


One beauteous foot the threshold pressed, 
One loitered in the bower, 

When there was laid upon his breast, 
Of flowers the fairest flower. 


Comrades. . 33 


A little Babe, dove-innocent, 
A star its brow above, 

Blue-eyed, with loving looks intent, 
And arms outstretched for love. 


, 


His hands forgot the Eden- blooms— 
No bloom like this was there; 

His eyes gave o’er to search the glooms 
Before a sight so fair. 


His heart leaped up; with joy suffused 
His radiant visage shone— 

As dove o'er dovelets bowed, he mused, 
Then, fearless, glided on. 


The stars shot forth a holier light, 
The bells sang loud and clear, 
As through the portals of the night 

Came forth the glad New Year! 


II. 


The leaves went from the withered trees 
As summer birds take flight ; 

The church-bell swung i’ the moaning breeze 
With dismal knells at night. 


From hill to hill a heavy cloud 
Trailed, splashing o’er the mere; 

The vaporous mists arose to shroud 
The face of the dying year. 


As monarch weary and sad and old 
Who doffs his rich array, 

The year resigns his red and gold 
For penitential gray. 


With pilgrim foot he paces forth, 
His breath comes chill and slow; 
Dim-eyed, he knows not south nor north 
Amid the drifting snow. 


And, as he moves, a rosy child 
Beside his pathway stands, 

Blue-eyed and beautiful and mild 
Who played with happy hands. 


VoL. xwu. No. 199. 52 


34 | The Irish Monthly, i“ 


He looked down on the sunny head : 
‘Thine eyes,” he said, “ are clear ; 
“I cannot go alone he said, 
‘‘The way is dim and drear.” 


He caught the child up to his breast, 
Who smiled in sweet amaze, 

And then as with one fear oppressed, 
Sent back a homeward gaze. 


His gold hair mingled with the gray, 
His hand waved, onward borne, 

The snow closed round them on their way— 
And I was left forlorn. 


0 


A NOW DESCRIPTIVE OF CHRISTMASTIDE." 


N° it is Christmas week, and Christmas Day falls on a 

Wednesday, which, in the opinion of the city clerk and 
others of his kind, is the next best thing to falling on a Tuesday ;. 
for what tyrant, commercial or otherwise, would compel his 
retainers to work on the ensuing Friday and Saturday ? 

Well, then, now are the city offices voiceless and dusty; now 
are four-wheelers rumbling and jolting, and hansoms dashing and 
swaying, and all their summits are overloaded with hampers and 
baskets, witk lids bulging and straining against doubtful knots 
and anything but infallible string. Now are cab-drivers jolly and 
frosty, or they are jolly and foggy, for they are like the weather, 
and inseparable from it, and they take their fares without 
grumbling (that is to say, to any appreciable extent), for times 
are looking up, and fares are tumbling in. 

Now do old gentlemen buy new woollen wrappers, and young 
ones new white kid gloves ; and both of them purchase innumerable 
Christmas cards covered with angels, and robins, and holly ; they 
also spend fortunes in postage stamps, and feel bored with 
‘ addressing so many envelopes. 

Now does the baked-potato-man, near the theatre door, order a 
double supply of.cold stock, and perhaps laments in the morning 


* The form and title of this paper are suggested by Leigh Hunt, whose subject, 
however, is ‘‘ A Hot Day.” 








A Now Descriptive of Christmastide. 35 | 


that he did not invest further; and his red-hot rival, the roasted- 
chestnut-vendor, pokes his fire, and seems regardless of economy 
in general and profit in particular, as he piles up anew the 
fragments of coke. 

Now do oranges remind one of pits and amphitheatres, and the 
Ali Baba and Puss in Boots of our youth; and walnuts are ~ 
captivating to the eye, and almonds aud raisins a glimpse of 

ise. i 

Now is some favourite nook in each Catholic church trans- 
formed by devout hands into a representation of the Crib of 
Bethlehem, and much pious ingenuity is lavished on every detail, 
from the straw-bestrewn floor, and the soft-eyed, dappled oxen, 
to the glittering stars above; and thousands visit these cribs and 
exclaim : “ How natural!” and some among them gaze with wet 
eyes, and yet withal a joy in them ; and children ask to be allowed 
to stop a few moments longer to look at the Child Jesus and the 
Mother of Divine Love. 

Now are public halls and private homes decorated with a 
profusion of evergreens and flags, mottoes and seasonable proverbs ; 
and people in them walk about laughing and singing (at least in 
their homes), and even the dyspeptic seem glad, for no other reason, - 
we suppose, than that other people are glad: and it does not 
surprise us very much when we detect them, despite coughs and 
colds and other additional ailments, beating time on the window 
panes with their fingers and purring “ Glorias.” 

Now are schoolboys, red-cheeked and impudent, fresh home 
from school. Now do they levy blackmail on near relatives of the 
masculine order, under the delusive plea of Christmas boxes; and 
they are allowed greater freedom, especially at the table and in 
bed in the morning, for now does not the school-bell bring their 
chubby little noses to the surface of the blankets, but their sisters 
knock gently at their doors and wish them everything good, the 
morning included ; and trust they slept well, and will they come 
across to the lake after breakfast and see if the ice will bear? To 
which they make what answer they please, and no one is annoyed, 
and the whole world seems created for healthy schoolboys and 
generous, foolish old fathers. 

Now do soldiers in barracks draw their pay and obtain leave 
for a week ; and they may be seen in railway-carriages and steam- 
boats, with their great coats on and their kits under their arms. 


36 The Irish Monthly. 


Now do the canteen receipts increase immeasurably, though the 
barracks are more than half-empty ; but many there are who remain 
behind, not, maybe for choice, but that the barrack-room is their 
home, and the canteen their relaxation ; and each mess has been 
' saving and frugal during the long autumn months, that Christmas, 
when it comes, may be fully honoured. . 

Now are sailors arriving at country railway stations, and 
exchanging greetings with porters and station-masters; and their 
trousers are wider and their blue shirt-arms shorter than usual, 
although the weather is bitterly cold—for they wear their holiday 
rig, and desire to emulate a personified freedom and a general 
looseness of structure—not to mention exhibiting to the rustics the 
tatooed anchors and crossed flags conspicuous on the brown wrist 
reddening in the cold, wintry wind. 

Now. are their hardy colleagues aboard ships far away at sea, 
hovering around the galley door, whilst the dusky cook, in a snowy 
cap and bare arms, hands forth steaming “ dough-boys” and 
“ plum-duff,” whilst the spray is drenching the weather bulwarks, 
aud the green water is hissing under the lee channels as fire 
heeling, canvas bedecked bark rushes nearer—still nearer home! 

Now are the theatres crammed, from the regiment of footlights 
below to the blinding lustre-decorated gasalier at the roof; and 
orchestras play medleys composed of all the catch-tunes of the 
past year, and choruses are taken up by the “ gods,” and echoed 
from the pit, to be joined in again in effervescing, reckless jollity 
by the greater part of the “ house; ” the few exceptions chatting 
in the stalls, or quizzing from the boxes; their aristocratic blood 
or immaculate shirt-fronts being some impediment perhaps—but 
their hearts are sound, and many among them hum to themselves 
or beat time with their patent-leathered feet. 

Now does the pretty little ballet-girl and her mangling mother 
(excuse the epithet, dear reader) eat substantial suppers, and order 
the best of porter, and drink tea at three shillings a pound; and 
pay off old-standing debts, and contract new ones, and otherwise 
make the most of the season. Not forgetful, of course, of the poor 
little dwarf sister who stays at home all day and works at mantle- 
making. She is clothed afresh from the second-hand wardrobe at 
the corner of the street (the one with a dark side-entrance), and 
the monthly hire of her sewing-machine is paid up to date. Now 
all is rosy, therefore, and the ballet-girl sings all the way down 





A Now Descriptive of Christmastide. 37 


stairs going to rehearsal, and all the way again at midnight (although 
tured and limp after the evening’s pirouetting), sheltered under 
her mother’s shawl, in lieu, we suppose, of wings. 

Now does her shady father, the “super,” drink a little more 
than is customary, but contributes the greater part of his increased 
mite to the general fund, and, on the whole, is not so bad as he 
might be at this time of the year; and his erstwhile greasy cap is 
replaced by a felt hat of indubitable respectabilty, and his paper 
collar is again bedight with a necktie wealthy in colour. He , 
sheds fewer tears in his beer than ever, despite the increased 
potations, and talks less of the old home in Hampshire, and the 
birds-nesting and squirrel-hunting days of his youth, ere he came 
to the great metropolis, and was swallowed up in the gaping maw 
of this huge London—this panting minotaur among cities; now 
his laughter is more genuine; and domestic brawls seem things of 
the past. 

Now are poets writing cheerful lyrics about snow, and bells, 
and hymns of peace, and kindred subjects; and few people care to 
read them, because, we suppose, they have read such things a 
hundred times before, or they prefer the real, practical Christmas 
to the ideal fancies of a rhymer. But they (the poems) fill up 
odd corners of weekly journals, and help to make things generally 
pleasant. 

Now are postmen, dustmen, lamplighters and news-boys. 
extraordinarily civil; for to-morrow or the next day is Boxing-day, 
and they have an eye to the main chance—or yesterday was the 
day, and their stock of gratitude has not yet quite evaporated. 

Now, lastly, the weather is seasonable and frosty, and the 
grocers’ shops look cheerful and homely, or it is unseasonable and 
foggy, and the grocers’ shops still look homely and cheerful, and so: 
do red curtains on parlour windows. And people in ’busses and 
tramcars are not so cross and morbid-minded as they might be, 
considering everything that happens to people nowadays; and 
things generally are as jolly as ever, and everybody forgives 
everybody else; and all but priests and milkmen rise late in the 
morning and g to bed later at night. 

And, now, Í think, that is about ail; and you, dear reader, are 
tired and commence to fidget with the page wearily, and long to 
turn it over; 80, now, pray do, with our best Christmas wishes for 


the whole year—old wishes, indeed, but yet ever new! 
Rk. E. 


38 The Irish Monthly. 


LUX IN TENEBRIS. 


At night what things will stalk abroad 
What veiléd shapes, and eyes of dread ! 
With phantoms in a lonely road 
And visions of the dead. 


The kindly room when day is here, 
At night takes ghostly terrors on ; 

And every shadow hath its fear, 
And every wind its moan. 


Lord Jesus, Day-Star of the world, 
Rise Thou, and bid this dark depart, 

And all the east, a rose uncurled, 
Grow golden at the heart! 


Lord, in the watches of the night, 
Keep Thou my soul! a trembling thing 
As any moth that in daylight 


Will spread a rainbow wing. 
KaTHARINE TYNAN. 


TOLD IN A FLORENTINE STUDIO. 


MAE. Jesus Christ be praised ! ” said Francesco 
Bandinelli. And a chorus of children’s voices 
answered : “ For ever and for ever. Amen.” 

é“ You come, dear children,” said the old pittore, as his habitual 
smile grew sunnier, and his ever cheerful voice became more 
animated—“ you come in the train of all things holy, bright, and 
beautiful. How good is God! An hour before the morning Ave 
an angel whispered, and 1 woke. The gay, glad sun had anticipated 
me. The birds had reached the third nocturn of their matins. 
Yonder mass of blue and scarlet anemone bent in adoration as the 
wind of Heaven swept by, bearing on its bosom the angels of the 
city. The mignonette sent forth a breath of sweetest incense as 
the birds reached their Benedictus. I knelt and prayed.” 





Told in a Florentine Studio. 39 


The old man bent lovingly over a fold of St. Francesco’s brown 
habit, touching it caressingly with the point of his brush. He was 
painting the seraphic one on Mount Alverno. The children stood 
in an orderly group around the easel. An aureole of sunlight 
flamed about the head of the Saint, and the glorious light of early 
morning lit up the little oratory near the door, and played upon 
the bold bands of colour that gleamed here and there in that long 
garret, which was at once the studio salon and bed-chamber of 
Signor Bandinelli. 

Such an odd little rabble of child-life in this Florentine 
chamber. Such a quaint, genial, benignant maestro in the tall, 
thin figure at the easel. Sixty-five years had bleached the once 
jet black hair and beard ; deep wrinkles had fallen upon the 
sunny face. But the smile of perfect gladness with which nature, 
aided by grace, had endowed him, was one of the greatest gifts the 
pitlore possessed. 

A rising artist at the time Cornelius and Overbech were at the 
height of their fame—a husband at the age of twenty-two, and a 
widower at thirity—-Bandinelli had given up the brilliant prospects 
then opening out to him in the Eternal City, to live an obscure, 
but useful and happy life in the Florence where he was born. 
Here, within earshot of the bells of Santa Maria del Fiore, he 
prayed and worked, esteemed by all, /oved by the children and the 


r. 

Scarcely a day passed but a troop of “ earth’s angels” invaded 
the privacy of his studio ; never a gloaming fell but, in the court 
below, the representatives of Christ were consoled and relieved. 
Never a morning came that did not find the painter at the altar of 
his God ; never an hour passed in that upper room without its act 
of homage to the Queen of Heaven. 

But this early morning hour was the children’s, and they knew 
it. Yet neither for romps nor bon-bons did they gather, though 
the former would not have been frowned upon, while the latter were 
plentifully bestowed on feast-days—and oh, how many patron 
saints and special feasts the maestro had! Zhe attraction, however, 
was Signor Bandinelli himself. 

“ Everywhere,” began the old man, “it is Heaven outside ; 
how, then, could my bambini leavs the sunshine ? ” 

“You promised the story of little Alessandro,” sang th 
chorus. 


40 The Irish Monthly. 


é Only it is too sad. It would dash your cherry cheeks with 
rain-drops.”” 

é“ But the maestro’s stories are never foo sad.” 

é“ And a promise is the most sacred thing,” added the pittore, 
laying down his brush, and beginning to patch the slopes of 
Alverno with his palette-knife. | 

This was the invariable preliminary. The children clapped 
their hands, and drew a little closer to the easel, as the artist began. 

“The little Alessandro was the only son of my elder brother. 
Only God and the Madonna know how I loved the shy little child. 
I call him shy—it does not express it. So precocious, yet so simple, 
so loving, yet so bashful ; so old-fashioned, yet so beautifully child- 
like. 

é One day, when he was little more than five years old, I took 
him to the Quarant’ Ore at S. Maria del Fiore. Children, you know 
the scene: it is supernal! It is more than a shadow of the Eternal 
Paradise. He Himself is there : seraphs sing the /audi of the blessed. 
A thousand golden stars twinkle about His throne. All is light,. 
colour, beauty, and sweet song. 

“My darling was entranced—wrapt in the sacredness of a 
. child’s unspoken prayer. Once or twice I glanced at his pale, 
sweet face. He knelt reverently, conscious of nought but the 
Adorable One. 

“é Half an hour sped quickly. I arose, inwardly chiding myself 
for neglecting the baby so long. I touched his arm, but he did 
not stir. I bent down and whispered in his ear. He looked up 
pleadingly, and said softly :— 

“May I go P’ 

“<Q yes, carissimo,’ I said, ‘it is time.’ 

“To the Bambino Santissimo? O zio,* He is so lovely, and 
He wants me to go.’ 

“ I took the laddie into my arms, reproving myself severely 
for allowing him, as 1 thought, to sleep through weariness. 

“á Lie still, child of my heart, and sleep ; you are go tired’—I 
said, as we stepped out into the cool air of early spring. 

“ é But I have not slept—I am not sleepy : I wish only to play 
with Him and the other pretty children among the stars and 
flowers,’ > 

~ “You have had bright dreams , my sweet one; but tell me. 
*Uncle. 


Told in a Florentine Studio. 4f 


what you saw,’ I added, as the tears gathered in his big dark | 
eyes. 

‘Zio, mio ! but you are cruel. A moment ago I saw the 
Bambino Santissimo, bright and pretty, high up among the 
flowers in a house of gold, many, many little children flying all 
about, playing, oh! such pretty games And once the Santissimo 
flew down from His golden room. He looked at me, and said: 
‘You will come’—and then He smiled, and I knew He wanted me. 
Zio! I should like to go. Only when you touched me He flew 
away. 

‘“¢T put my hand to his head : it was burning hot. 

é Hastening home, I gave the child to its mother. She thought 
he had caught a chill ; but she did not reproach me. She knew 
how tenderly I loved him. 

é “That great Chiesa has terrible draughts,’ she said; “ my 
Aleseandro is feverish.’ 

“ I assented, and remarked upon the unusual flickering of the 
candles on and about the altar. It was then the darling—lying 
now with eyes unnaturally bright, and cheeks more scarlet than 
the geranium—looked up quickly into his mother’s face, and 
said — | 

“é Ah, but it was not the wind that made the stars to twinkle ; 
that was the wings of the angel-children as they flew in and out 
among the lights, and played with the Santissimo.’ 


“That night Alessandro lay in his little cot in the agony of a 
burning fever. In the morning he had passed beyond the flowers— 
higher than the stars, and was playing with the Bambino Santissimo 
in the garden of Heaven.” 

The pittore looked round upon his little guests, smiling through 
his tears. He had told the story so gaily and briefly, they scarcely 
realised its almost tragic ending. They were silent for a moment, 
and then one little lad, with an old-world face and grave tone, 
added— ' 

“ But your bambino was right. I know that, when the candles 
flicker, it is always that the angels are flying around. They never: 
leave the Santissimo. Only perhaps at Exposition there are more 
angels than at other times.”’ 

Francesco Bandinelli was making an act of thanksgiving for 


42 The ligh. Monthly. 


the child’s simple faith when a bell in the near distance rang out 
for morning school. In a moment the chamber was cleared. A 
fresh flood of sunlight poured itself into the room, as though to 
console its occupant for the departed “angels.” A gush of bird 
music came through the open window. The painter resumed his 
task. The labour of the day went on unbrokenly in a place where 


work was prayer, and prayer was work. 
Davin BEARNE. 


DETHRONED. 


HERE is a warlike music in the blast ; 
The rebel winds have risen and discrowned 
The aged Year, and strewn upon the ground 
The gold and crimson of his splendours past. 


Poor monarch! he hath cast his honours down, 
Shaken with storms and pierced with frosty spears, 
And fled to sanctuary, and now wears 

In lieu of kingly state the friar’s brown. 


Death hath enrolled him in his house of gloom, 
Who first stole summer from the flowering lea, 
Nor much, I think, he cares for life since she 

‘Was laid with all her roses in the tomb. 


But now kind Heaven doth avenge his woes, 
Confounding those who called him Fortune's fool : 
For, where he dying lies, comes holy Yule 

To blanch his memory with saintly snows. 


43 


ANONYMITIES UNVEILED. 
VI.—Femintne Noms de Plume rx Current LITERATURE. 


HE care taken to make Hazell’s Annual worthy of its second 
name, “ A Cyclopedic Record of Men and Topics of the 
Day,” is shown in the additions made in 1889 to information 
given in 1888 on such a small matter as literary pseudonyms. 
The person responsible for this item has not overlooked the 
controversy which has established that the proper French term is 
nom de guerre, and that the more common form has only at most - 
been adopted from without among French writers. Many also are 
added to the three hundred pen-names explained in the 1888 
edition. This list might very well have confined itself to modern 
writers, as it purports to do; but it includes Swift and Addison. 
Is it right to give “Clio,” as Addison’s signature? He marked 
his contributions to The Spectator by one of the letters which make 
up “ Clio.” 

Hazell includes the maiden names used in authorship by some 
married ladies. Let us select a few of these, representing both 
art and literature. Miss Dorothea Gerard, one of the authors of 
that fine tale, “ Reata,” is now Madame de Lazouski. The artist. 
who is still known as “ Mary Ellen Edwards” (to be distinguished 
from Miss Betham Edwards) married twenty years ago Mr. Freer, 
and after his death she became Mrs. J. C. Staples. Another artist, 
whose illustrations in the magazines, &c., are credited to “ Adelaide 
Claxton,” has been for several years Mrs. Turner. Miss Alice 
Havers, the artist, is now Mrs. Morgan; and her novelist-sister, 
Miss Dora Havers, is Mrs. Boulger, though both her maiden and 
married names are disguised under the curious pseudonym of 
“‘Theo Gift ”——whioh probably alludes to the Greek meaning of 
the second half of her full baptismal name, “ Theodora,” as the 
““Basil”’ of Mr. Richard Ashe King certainly refers to his 
surname. Miss Braddon is Mrs. John Maxwell; Miss Florence 
Marryat has borne two other names in private life; and Miss 
Mabel Collins is married. The communicative paragraphs “Mainly 
About People,” in Zhe Star, give us these particulars, but not the 
married names of these two last. The privation is not very trying. 


44 The Irish Monthly. 


Let us cull from Hazell’s latest list* (which contains some four 
hundred names), and from other miscellaneous sources, some lite- 
rary names of women, chosen more or less arbitrarily. To secure 
some degree of method in our madness, we group together, first, the 
ladies who have taken masculine names. George Sand (Madame 
Dudevant) was, perhaps, the first to-set this‘exemple; and she and 
her namesake George Eliot (Mrs. Cross, née Marian Evans) are the 
most famous. Another feminine George is Miss Julia Fletcher, 
who, under the name of George Fleming, did some fine literary work. 
The three Bronte sisters took such names as would have the same 
initials as their real names, Catherine, Anne, and Emily becoming: 
Currer, Acton, and Ellis Bell. The first of these is hard to 
recognise as Mrs. Nichols. Ireland has some claim upon her; for 
her father was originally Patrick Prunty, a native of county 
Down—name supposed to be civilized by the change, just as the 
father of Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan) was once McKeown, 
then Mac Owen, and, as Mac means “ Son,” finally Owenson, in 
the same way that certain McShanes have become Johnsons. 

Fernan Caballero is the masculine-looking name of a true and 
gifted woman, Cecilia Bohl de Faber, the Maria Edgeworth of 
Spain, and perhaps something more. Raoul de Navery, an 
edifying writer of safe tales of no high order of merit, was a French 
lady, not long dead, whose name we forget. Edward Garrett is, 
it seems, Mrs. Isabella Mayo (née Fivey). We have read none of 
_ her writings; but we have read, with keen pleasure, some of the 
American tales of Charles Egbert Craddock, who is in reality Miss 
Mary Murfree (not a variation, we fear, of Murphy, for we should 
be glad to claim for the Irish race some share in “ The Prophet of 
the Smoky Mountains”). Ennis Graham has been sometimes 
used as a name by Mrs. Molesworth, but she is known best by her 
real name, whereas “ Holme Lee” is much better known than 
Miss Harriet Parr. “ Fucas Malet” is Mrs. Harrison. Another 
very gifted woman who has chosen to write under a masculine, or: 


* No, not the latest. The new edition for 1890 appeared on December 6th, 
1889, and yet chronicles facts which occurred on December 3rd. The sketch of 
Martin Farquhar Tupper in the body of the work, mentions his death, which only 
occurred on November 26th. The Pall Mall Gazette, of December 3rd, reports an 
interview with the Rev. E. G. Price, F.G.S., who has edited all the volumes since 
1886, and it obligingly informs us that he is six feet four inches in height, and forty 
years of age. He refers with special complacency to the article on which our 
present paper draws with (we hope) sufficiently explicit acknowledgment. 








Anonymities Unteiled. 45 


not openly feminine, name is “ Leader Scott ”—Miss Lucy Barnes 
(now Mrs. Baxter), daughter of the famous Dorsetshire poet, the 
Rev. William Barnes. 

Of Irish literary women, Lady Wilde is, perhaps, more widely 
known as “Speranza” than as the mother of Oscar Wilde. 
Amongst the name-disguises caused by marriage is the change of 
Miss Mary Laffan into Mrs. Hartley. ‘ E. Owens Blackburne”’ is 
known in private life as Miss Casey. Our readers have long boen 
aware that “ Mary” of The Nation was Ellen Downing, of Cork. 
The credit of some of Miss Kosa Mulholland’s early stories was 
given to an imaginary “Ruth Murray.” “ Melusine ” is Miss 
Skeffington Thompson. Almost the only noms de plume among 
the contributors to Tur Irish MoNTHLY are “M. E. Francis,” 
“Evelyn Pyne,” and “ Alice Esmonde.” The first two wish to 
maintain their pseudonymity; but the recent publication of 
“ Songs of Remembrance,” allows us to recognise “ Alice Esmonde”’ 
as Miss Margaret Ryan. However,a key to the signatures of 
writers in this Magazine, as far as its general policy of signed 
articles has left an opening for the services of a key, will be 
furnished in some special instalment of the present series; and the 
subject need not now be pursued further. Yet we cannot refrain 
from interpreting the initials of two other gifted women, an Eng- 
hsh woman and an [rish woman. “ B. N.,” the author of an ex- 
cellent History of the Jesuits, is Miss Barbara Neave, now marricd 
to a French gentleman; and Mrs. Atkinson is the “8. A.,” to 
whom we owe “ The Life of Mary Aikenhead,” and a great. ‘deal 
more of admirable literary work. 


VIL—Noms de Plume op Literary Men. 


In the preceding section we mentioned many women who 
thought fit to write under the disguise of masculine names. We 
do not recall, on the other hand, any prominent instance of a 
literary man chousing to write under the cloak of supposed femi- 
winity. 

One of our latest discoveries in this department concerns the 
author of “A Poet’s Praise,” which we commended warmly before 
we had any idea that our homage was offered to a Catholic bishop. 
The following paragraph in Zhe Ave Maria was a surprise to us :— 


46 The Irish Monthly. 


“Henry Hamilton ’’ has just brought out through his publishers, Messrs. G- 
P. Putnam Sons, New York, a metrical translation of the first four books of the 
/Eneid. It is no longer a secret, we believe, that Henry Hamilton is the pen-name- 
of the Right Rev. Bishop Spalding, of Peoria, who has published also two volumes 
of original verse—‘‘ America ” and “: A Poet’s Praise.’? His latest work has been 
more favourably received by the critics. He has not aimed at litera]ness, but rather 
to bring out the spirit of Virgil’s immortal poem in English form, and to this end. 
he has wisely chosen different verse-forms.”’ 


Of some two or three hundred false names and initials which 
can be translated into the full names of the authors in question, 
the following may be taken as sufficiently numerous samples. 
Anstey, author of Vice Versa, is Mr. Guthrie; “ B” (of The Times), 
Lord Bramwell; “Cuthbert Bede” (author of “ Verdant Green”), 
Rev. Edward Bradley; ‘‘ Lewis Carroll” (“ Alice in Wonderland”), 
Rev. C. L. Dodgson; “ Hugh Conway ” was Mr. F. J. Fergus; 
é Arthur Locker,” it seems, is in reality Mr. J. H. Forbes; “ Owen 
Meredith” is of course the present Lord Lytton ; “Shirley” is John 
Skelton; “Toby, M.P.,” in Punch, is Mr. Henry W. Lucy; 
‘“‘Patricius Walker” was the prose signature of the poet, William 
Allingham, who has just died. It is hardly worth while picking out 
any others of these pseudonyms. Most writers who are worth 
knowing, make themselves known under every disguise. 


VIII.—Reat Names or American HvumourIists. 


The Philadelphia Press gives the following list, from which we 
have blotted out two that had got into it by some very stupid mis- 
take :—‘* Peter Plymley” [Sydney Smith], and “James Yellow- 
plush” [Thackeray]. Perhaps the American paper intended to fur- 
nish a list of all the best humourous writers, and thought they all 
belonged to the United States except these two. Any such list 
should include “ Emmanuel Kink,” an early signature of Richard 
Dowling, the novelist, who began by being an admirable humour- 
ist ; and also “ Arthur Sketchley,” namely, Mr. George Rose, who, 
with all his waggery, was serious enough to sacrifice Anglican 
ecclesiastical preferment to become a Catholic — 


é Josh Billings,” Henry W. Shaw. 

é Andrew Jack Downing,” Seba R. Smith. 
é“ Artemus Ward,” Charles Farrar Browne. 
“ Bill Arp,” Charles H. Smith. 

é“ Gath,” George Alfred Townsend. 





Anonymities Unveiled. 47 


é“ Fat Contributor,” A. Miner Griswold. 

“ Hawkeye Man,” Robert J. Burdette. 
 Howadjii,” George William Curtis. 

“© Ike Marvel,” Donald Grant Mitchell. 

s John Paul,” Charles H. Webb. 

é John Phoenix,” Captain George H. Derby. 
“ Mark Twain,” Samuel L. Clemens. 

“ Max Adeler,” Charles Heber Clark. 

“ Bh Perkins,” Melville D. Landon. 

“ Petroleum V. Nasby,” David Locke. 

“ Bill Nye,” William E. Nye. 

“ Nym Crynkle,” Andrew C. Wheeler. 

“ Old Si,” Samuel W. Small. 

“ Orpheus C. Kerr,” Robert H. Newell. 

“ Pelig Wales,” William A. Croffut. 

é The Danbury Newsman,” J. M. Bailey. 

“é Miles O'Reilly,” Charles G. Halpin. 

“ Peter Parley,”’ Samuel G. Goodrich. 

“ Ned Buntline,” Colonel Judson. 

“ Brick Pomeroy,” M. M. Pomeroy. 

“ Josiah Allen’s Wife,” Marietta Holley. 

é Q. K. Philander Doesticks,”’ Mortimer Thompson. 
“ Mrs. Partington,” Benjamin P. Shellabar. 
“ Spoopendyke,” Stanley Huntley. 

é“ Uncle Remus,” Joel Chandler Harris. 

é“ Hosea Bigelow,” James Russell Lowell. 

é“ Fanny Fern,” Sarah Payson Willis. 

é Grandfather Lickshingle,” Robert W. Criswell. . 
‘¢M. Quad,” Charles B. Lewis. 

é Hans Breitman,”’ Charles G. Leland. 


Only a dozen of these can, we think, be said to have more than 
an American reputation. The first of them, Mr. Henry Shaw, 
is not only “Josh Billings,” but also ‘‘ Uncle Esek,” whose very 
wise and grave sayings we have occasionally honoured with a place 
among the “ Winged Words” which this Magazine has uttered 
at close intervals during the last eighteen years. 


48 ' 


THE REDBREAST. 


F my friends it were folly to tell 
Which is dearest, if dearest there be; 

Of the birds of the air, I know well 

That the Redbreast is dearest to me. 
Sweeter music [ never have heard | 

Than the Robin’s miraculous powers ; 
I feel like the Monk with the Bird, 

When a hundred years seemed a few hours. 


Nearly all other birds only sing 
While the sunshine enlivens the earth : 
Joyous minstrels, they follow their king— 
Mine alone has no music for mirth. 
So he sighs and sings sorrowful strains, 
When the lilies and roses are fled, 
And the lavender only remains, 
Lending Autumn her scents for the dead. 


When the golden leaves drop one by one, 
Or are swept by the wind off the spray,— 
When the fruit that was hid from the sun 
Hangs unripe or shrunk up from decay— 
When the mist, cold and gray, like a shroud, 
Clings in folds round each skeleton tree, 
And the whole sky is one dismal cloud, 
Until dusk settles down on the lea — 


When our spirits, in Summer so high, 
Are depressed by these sad Autumn days— 
When the brightest grow grave, and a sigh 
The foreboding of sorrow betrays, — 
Let us find out the favourite haunts 
Where the notes of the Robin are heard, 
For the heart gets the comfort it wants 
From the voice of that innocent bird. 


There’s the blackbird pipes boldly in Spring, 
And the thrush bravely seconds his song ; 

Then the lark mounts and sings on the wing, 
And the swallow, while darting along— 





The Redbreast. 


Next, we hear the low voice of the dove 
That diffuses deep peace through the glades, 
Till the nightingales, sleepless with love, 
Thrill the groves with their sweet serenades. 


They delight us—they make us feel brave, 
And they gladden our spirits awhile— 
But at length arrive griefs far too grave 
To be cured with a song ora smile. 
Oft they come with that last fragrant scent 
Given forth, ere they fade, by the plants— 
And ’tis then that the Robin is sent 
To console us with soft, plaintive chants: 


Ah! the death-room is darkened and dim, 
Only moanings of angnish are heard— 
But there steals in a human-like hymn, 
Tis the song of this sorrowing bird. 
And you hear it again at the grave, 
At the tomb of the friend whom you weep. 
Twas a sigh—yet what solace it gave! 
"Twas a dirge—yet it lulled grief to sleep. 


Who, then, guides him to houses of grief ? 
Who directs him to lone, silent graves? 
Ah! who sends him with hidden relief, 
Unseen alms of a pity that saves ? 
It is God. For all creatures of earth, 
And of heaven above, serve our God; 
Who reveres all He made, and gives worth 
To the least blade of grass on the sod ;— 


And a charge unto each is assigned— 
To the angels, to saints, to the skies, 
To the mountains, the waves and the wind, 
To the beasts with their half-human cries— 
Tis to tell of God's glory and might, 
Of his beautiful kingdom above : 
And they fill us with purest delight, 
For they speak of an Infinite Love. 


Vou. xvi. No. 199. 


53 


49 


50 


The Irish Monthly. 


But, when trials and sorrows come down, 
‘When the dearest and best must depart, 
And our life never more will wear crown— 
Oh, how lonely they leave the poor heart! 
Sorrow-laden, we wearily wend, 
Bent with sadness, to hide in the woods,— 
For we dread our most intimate friend 
When oppréssed with these terrible moods. 


When the heart breaks, its fountains are dried, 
And the worn eyes demand tears in vain— 
God alone knows the grief we would hide, 
He has felt the heart’s bitterest pain— 
He, who hid to be sad and to pray, 
Marks the place of our anguish and prayer, 
And He will not reprove, if we say | 
It is He bids the Redbreast sing there. 


Robin Redbreast, thy song makes us fit 
To,return to our wearisome strife ; 
At thy voice we resolve to submit 
To the bitter-sweet chalice of life. 
There are mercies and pity divine, 
There are tender compassions unseen, 
And to sing of these mercies is thine, 
At the season when sorrows are keen. 


I have loved thee, tame bird, from the first, 
From the time I strewed crumbs for thy food ; 
Though a rough, cruel child, at the worst, 
Unto thee I was gentle and good. 
O my mother’s dear, favourite bird, 
With the blood of the Cross on thy breast 
Little friend, all thy plainings were heard, 
As we watched her departure to rest. 


Gentle bird, it is well thou hast sighs, 

For thou bringest to mind the dark bier, 
And the holiest memories rise, 

Still bedewed with the heart’s saddest tear. 





Notes on New Books. 51 


Cease! Cease! No repiner am I, 
And the time for such grief is long o’er ; 
God, who died, let His own mother die, 
And above there are partings no more! 


Sweetest songster, sing on—pay no heed 
~ To my murmurs: for peace comes at last ; 
Thou hast sighs, and thy breast seems to bleed 
For the pains of the present and past. 
Every mourner who hears thee can tell 
How thy song, while its melody flows, 
Soothes the heart with divine mercy’s spell, 


With a message from Heaven’s repose. 
D. B. 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. Precedence must be given this month to a little book which 
cannot be criticised but only announced in this Magazine, as it is 
written by the Editor. It is not a large or profound work, being 
merely a prayerbook in verse, which has taken the too daring name of 
The Harp of Jesus from the anagram which turns the word 
‘‘Eucharistia” into the words ‘‘Cithara Iesu.” It is the first of its 
exact kind, as far as we are aware. There are books of hymns and 
meditations in verse; but a regular prayerbook, giving morning 
oblation, Pater, Ave, Creed, Confiteor ; Acts of Contrition, Faith, 
Hope and Charity ; Prayers before and after Confession and Com- 
munion ; the Rosary, the Stations of the Cross, etc. etc.—this has at 
least the merit of novelty. The writer, of course, never attempted the 
versification of the prayerbook as a set task ; but the various prayers, 
fur the most part, found themselves composed for other purposes, and 
many of them have already been widely used. They have been 
grouped together in their present form by an afterthought, which 
might have been suggested (but was not) by the following character- 
istically kind note received from Lady Georgiana Fullerton after the 
publication of the writer’s earliest book of verse, Emmanuel :— 


‘© 27 Chapel Street 
é“ Park Lane, W. 
* Dean FaTHER RUSSELL, 
éI have just received the little volume you have kindly sent me. The contents 
seem likely to prove a treasure to many devout worshippers. I have already met 





52 The Irish Monthly. 


' in it with prayers easy to learn and that will be very helpful to devotion. With 
many grateful thanks for this welcome gift, 
| ‘¢ T remain 
é“ Yours sincerely 
“i Ggoreiana FULLERTON.’’ 


June 7th [1878.] 

Four days later, Kathleen O’Meara wrote from Paris: ‘ Your 
‘Stations’ have been copied into three prayerbooks—one for each 
member of the family—as answering a want that we were expressing 
only a day or two ago : some short epitome of the Way of the Cross, 
which would save one’s having to carry a large book in one’s Visit in ~ 
the afternoon.” The prayers here referred to by those two gifted and 
saintly souls may be found with many others in The Harp of Jesus, 
which is published in a cheap, neat, and convenient form by Messrs. 
M. H. Gill and Son, Dublin. 


2. We agree with Punch that the best Christmas-book of the 
season, the one that chimes in best with the true Christian Christmas 
spirit, is ‘‘The Poor Sisters of Nazareth, an Illustrated Record of 
Life at Nazareth House, Hammersmith, London,” drawn by George 
Lambert, written by Alice Meynell, and “dedicated to my litle 
daughter, Monica.” ‘The publishers are Burns and Oates, who 
furnish a half-crown and a half-guinea edition. The former is a 
marvel of cheapness, but the latter is well worth the extra eight 
shillings. The illustrations are worthy of their good fortune in being 
expounded in Mrs Meynell’s prose. They set every phase and incident 
of convent life before us as it is lived at Nazareth House—choir and 
kitchen and infirmary and work-room, washing day and ironing day, 
coal-skuttle and collecting van. How many good thoughts this beauti- 
ful book will put into hearts for whom the holy Sisterhoods of the 
Catholic Church are not commonplace through a blessed familiarity. 


8. Another dainty volume is ‘‘A Book of Gold, and other 
Sonnets,” by John James Piatt (London: Elliot Stock). The cover 
adds as a sub-title, “ A Quarter Century of Sonnets,” and the self- 
denial that refuses to go beyond so small a number as twenty-five is 
a good omen for the perfection of the chosen few. The earlier ones, 
in subject and tone, might remind us of the ‘“‘Sonnets from the 
Portuguese.” Purity aud refinement breathe in every line. But our 
favourite out of all is, we think, the tenth, though probably few will 
agree with us. That ‘‘book of dual authorship’ referred to could 
hardly be sent forth more gracefully. 


4. “Christian Reid” is the pen-name of an American lady, Miss 
Fisher, who, if our recollection of sundry paragraphs in American 





Notes on New Books. 53 


newspapers does not play us false, has lately changed that name also 
for another in real life. She ranks very high among the Catholic 
writers of fiction in the United States; and, though she does not hide 
her Catholic principles in the development of her plots, her stories are 
real stories, with lifelike characters well worked out. Oneof the latest 
of these is ‘‘ Philip’s Restitution,” which will make many friends for 
its author in these countries in the excellent type and paper with 
which M. H. Gill and Sons have produced this Dublin edition. 


5. Worth many dozens of new books thrown together is the 
second, enlarged and revised edition of Lady Ferguson’s ‘“‘ Story of 
the Irish Before the Conquest” (Dublin: Sealy, Bryers, and Walker). 
The work itself is admirable in its conception and execution, tracing 
Irish history from the mythical period to the invasion under Strong- 
bow, giving the best of the legends in vivid prose or in the metrical 
form in which they have been clothed by the poets, such: as D’Arcy 
M‘Gee, Aubrey de Vere, and especially the writer’s illustrious 
husband, Sir Samuel Ferguson, whose “ Congal” holds the highest 
rank in the poetry of our nation. The new edition has been produced 
exceedingly well by its Dublin printers. Several maps of ancient 
Ireland enable us to follow the battles and to identify the churches 
and monasteries. Lady Ferguson ends the preface to this new edition 
with the words: ‘1 desire to dedicate this book to the beloved 
memory of my husband.” ‘the man who did so much for Irish 
literature since he wrote "The Forging of the Anchor” when little 
more than a boy would desire no better memorial. It is a work of 
immense research, deep enthusiasm, true eloquence and poetic feeling ; 
and the writer has deserved well of her country. 


6. ‘Irish Fairy Tales” by Edmund Leamy, M.P. (Dublin: M. H. 
Gill and Son) consists of seven stories, illustrated by about twice as 
many pictures, telling us all about the Princess Finola and the 
Dwarf, the House in the Lake, the Little White Cat, the Golden 
Spears, the Fairy Tree of Dooros, the Enchanted Cave, and the 
Huntsman’s Son. A few notes at the end refer to the ‘Old Celtic 
Romances” of Dr. P. W. Joyce, and to Eugene O’Curry’s ““ Manners 
and Customs of the Ancient Irish;” but these authorities afford a 
very scanty portion of the materials which Mr Leamy has woven into 
these thrilling narratives. His fancy is inexhaustible, and he seems 
to have in perfection the knack of story-telling. One peculiarity of 
his style is the directness and rapidity of the narrative, which do not 
allow digressions and descriptions, and which make the substantives 
describe themselves without the aid of aset of adjectives. The literary 
merit of this children’s book is very considerable ; but in our day 


54 | The Irish Monthly. 


some of the best of our literature is that which is intended for the 
young. As far as we know, this is the first title page which has borne 
the name of Mr. Edmund Leamy, M.P. It will not be the last. 


7. We must group together three books, which have this in 
common, that they are translated tales. Sister Mary Fidelis, an 
English nun, who has already given us an excellent translation of a 
course of meditations entitled ‘‘ Growth in the Knowledge of our Lord,” 
translates “from the French ‘‘ Linda’s Task, or the Debt of Honour” 
(London : Burns and Oates). Why not mention the French author ? 
The translation is no doubt well done, and the tale is eminently 
moral ; but we have not been much caught by it, though we have 
given it a fair chance. [Printer and binder both deserve a special 
vote of thanks. Mr. Henry J. Gill, M.A., translates from the German 
of Wilhelm Herchenbach two tales, ‘‘ The Armourer of Solingen” and 
é“ Wrongfully Accused” (Dublin: M. H. and Son). The stories are 
full of incident, of a kind that catches the attention of the youthful 
reader. In this version they read pleasantly and naturally, without 
any unpleasant reminders of the aphorism which identifies fraditore 
and traduttore. Large type and ample margin help to make out of 
this Irish edition quite a portly volume, which, we suspect, would 
throw the German original into the shade, even without the eight 
illustrations with which “ W. C. M.” has embellished it. Yet many 
young peopie will prefer—and we are inclined to agree with them—a 
smaller volume bearing on the title page the names of the sam» 
translator, and the same publishers ; and indeed we wenture to add 
that this is a case of the old story, ‘‘ the two Maguires is one”—the 
same gentleman is translator and publisher, namely the ex-M.P. for 
Limerick. The second volume from his pen is ‘‘Chased by Wolves, 
and other instructive Stories, chiefly translated from the French, 
German, and Italian.” The stories are thirty four in number, which 
proves that each does not claim a large share of the three hundred 
pages. This variety will make the book more popular, we are sure, 
and its popularity ought not to pass away with the Christmas-box 
season. Does the adverb ‘‘ chiefly’ on the title-page imply that some 
of these pretty little stories are original ? “ May’s Christmas Tree” 
has probably come straight from an Irish heart, We end this 
paragraph with “Christmas Legends,” translated from the German 
by O. 8. B. (London : Washbourne). There are seven of them, very 
pious and very pretty, and brought out with the good taste that we 
have learned to expect from 18 Paternoster Row. But, after ending, 
we must add still another story-book—‘ The Jolly Harper and his 
good fortune, and other amusing tales” (Dublin: M. H. Gill and 





Notes on New Books. 55 


Son). There are thirty-seven of them, with plenty of amusement for 
the readers for whom they are intended. We are not told anything 
about the miscellaneous authorship of this pleasant Christmas book. 


8. Since sending the first of these book-notes to the printer, we 
have received “ The Life of Dom Bosco, Founder of the Salesian 
Society,” translated from the French of J. M. Villefranche by Lady 
Martin (London: Burns and Oates). * A few words of preface dated 
from Merrion Square, Dublin, would not have been out of place. The 
name of another Lady Martin has quite lately figured on a title page; 
but indeed the publishers and the theme of the present work show 
that it is not written by the wife of the Queen’s literary adviser, Sir 
Theodore Martin, but by the wife of an Irish Catholic baronet, Sir 
Richard Martin. One knows enough already of this holy Italian 
priest, who did so much for the young, to be anxious for the full in- 
formation given in this well written and well arranged biography. 
Nothing could be more satisfactory than the get-up of the volume. 
The chapters read very naturally and pleasantly, with nothing to re- 
mind you that they are translated from the French, except an 
occasional name which that tyrannical language turns into French, but 
which ought here to be given in the Italian form. The Seraphic 
Saint is for us Francis of Assisi (not “d'Assise”). Can Chateauneuf 
be near Turin? Nay, we doubt if outside France Dom be anything 
but a Benedictine prefix. J Promess: Spost has made us all familiar 
with Don Abbondio ; and we think that the subject of Lady Martin’s 
excellent work was Don Bosco. 


9. An exceedingly interesting little book of sixty pages is “A 
Shrine and a Story” by the author of ‘‘Tyborne,” ‘ Irish Hearts 
and Irish Homes,” ete. (London: Catholic Truth Society). The 
five terse and brightly written chapters are full of interesting names, 
familiar especially to Dublin Catholics: Dr. Blake, of Dromore, 
Father Henry Young, Mr James Murphy, Lady Georgiana Fuilerton, 
and Miss Ellen Kerr. A great many interesting and edifying par- 
ticulars are given about most of these, whose bond of union was their 
connection with St. Joseph’s Asylum for Virtuous Single Females, in 
Portland Row, Dublin. This is the ‘shrine’? in question, and its 
story is charmingly told by the Author of “'Tyborne,” who in another 
sphere of labour is known to her children as Mother Magdalen 
Taylor. . 

10. The largest and, in its own way, the best book that has pre- 
sented itself before our tribunal this Christmas is one published by 
the Catholic Publication Society of New York, and calling itself, with 
perfect truth, ‘‘Good Things for Catholic Readers: a Miscellany of 
Catholic Biography, Travel, etc., containing portraits and sketches of 


56 The Irish Monthly. 


eminent persons, and engravings representing the church and the 
cloister, the state and home, remarkable places connected with reli- 
gion, and famous events in all lands and times.” The leaves are so 
ample, that even this lengthy enumeration does not overcrowd the 
title-page. It is called “second series,” and it will provoke many de- 
mands for the first series. The present volume, though printed in a 
round, readable type, contains a vast number of articles, profusely 
illustrated. Biography is only one of the many items, but we may 
name some of the biographical sketches: Mrs. Aikenhead, St. Thomas 
Aquinas, Mrs. Ball, Balmes, Madame Barat, Baronius, Bayard, 
Father Beckx, Cardinal Beton, Bossuet, Father Thomas Burke, James 
Burns, the publisher, Calderon, Cartier, Archbishop Corrigan, Cardi- 
nal Cullen, Aubrey de Vere, Kenelm Digby, Richard Doyle, Father 
Faber, Lady G. Fullerton, Mother, Hallahan, Archbishop Hannan, 
Dr. Lingard, Denis Florence MacCarthy, Lord O’Hagan, Rev. C. W. 
Russell, D.D., Louis Veuillot, Dr. Walsh, Archbishop of Dublin. We 
have reached the end of the alphabet, but we have done so by jump- 
ing over many times. The portraits which illustrate these sketches 
are, in the five or six instances in which we are qualified to judge, ex- 
tremely successful. ‘‘Good Things” furnishes also information on a 
great variety of interesting topics. It is a valuable and interesting 
addition to a family library. 


11. From the United States also come Volumes 13 and 14 of the 
Centenary Edition of the Ascetical Works of St. Alphonsus Liguori, 
admirably edited and admirably printed and bound. The same in- 
defatigalle publishers, the Benzigers, have sent us the second volume: 
of the Sermons of Father Julius Pottgeisser, 8.J., translated from the 
German by Father James Conway, S.J. This volume contains sermons 
for festivals, for Lent, and for the Quarant’ Ore. These discourses are 
full of solid matter, proposed with great vigour. Benziger has also 
published miniature treatises on ‘‘ The Golden Prayer” and on “ The 
Power of the Memorare.” Another pretty little booklet is “ St. 
Thomas Aquinas” by Francis C. P. Hays (London : R. Washbourne). 
Mr Washbourne is also the publisher of “: All Souls’ Furget-me-not,” 
a prayer and meditation book for the solace of the souls in purgatory, 
translated from the German by Canon Moser. We must speak again 
of two very different books: Father Albert Barry’s “Life of Blessed 
Margaret Mary” (London: Burns and Oates), and ‘‘ Songs in a Minor 
Key” by W. C. Hall, B.A. (Dublin: Sealy, Bryers, and Walker). 
They have one point in common—namely; that they are produced. 
with excellent taste. 


FEBRUARY, 1890. 





BRACKEN HOLLOW. 
A Srory IN Two Parts. 
PART I. 


“ OUGH ! do you know what this letter means? Finish your 

breakfast, old dog, and come for a walk up the glen to 
Bracken Hollow: for the old place shall be brightened up, the 
shutters shall be flung open, the chimneys shall smoke, and the 
trees shall move away from before the doors and windows. Youth, 
the fairy prince, is coming on tip-toe from beyond summer seas, to 
tread the paths green again, to spread sunshine on the threshold, and 
to wake the sleeper, Joy, who has so long lain dead in the dark 
chambers waiting his voice to arise and fill the place with light. 
And when our glad errand is done, we will visit the valley church- 
yard.”’ 

So the day passes, and it is evening. Rough and I have been to 
see a grave. It is a lorn place, and the wind has grown shrill, and 
we come home feeling rather desolate. Clouds are gathering for a 
wild night. The old dog has curled in by the fender, and I have 
brought my arm-chair to his side, and dragged forth an old desk, 
and turned over its contents—packages of old letters, aud loose 
leaves of an irregular journal. 

Rough, we have set ourselves a hard task. To reach, with feeble 
Voice, the ears of our city friends across the sea, and to make them turn 
on their busy road, and gaze over their shoulder down some slant sun- 
path to the steeps and tangles of our Glenariffe. To make them see, 
with their distant eyes, dimmed with gold and dust, our bay, as now, 
for instance, moonlit ; with its stretch of pale sands, like a white pro- 

Von. xv. No. 200. b¢ 





58 The Irish Monthly. 


jecting arm, curved round the margin of the dark water, with its 
lullaby music murmuring patiently from the Bar, its lapping waves 
flinging diamond circlets perpetually at the feet of the rocks, and 
with its uncertain glimpses into the soft gloom of silent glens, 
sheltered for many a mile under the strong arms of the moun- 
tains. 

There ! draw the curtain, Go back to your rug, old dog. What 
do you know about it? The sea is nothing to you but a broad 
shining fascination, towards which your lazy speculating eyes turn 
and return. You know nothing of spirits crossing, of the fatal 
hollows between waves, of the white curl of a squall spreading, like 
a plague-spot, on the breast of a fair ocean. Neither do you know 
anything of the unsounded depths of the human heart, of the shoals 
and wrecks in that sea, of the treacherous rocks and dizzy maelstroms, 
which, at every breath we draw, beat out, and suck in, mortal and 
alas! immortal life. And so, though you sit there, looking through 
me, with the almost human sympathy of your eyes, you are only a 
dog, old friend, and the old man must patch his story, and say his say 
alone. 

Margaret Avon and I were old man and old woman together, and 
yet when she was the wedded mistress of Bracken Hollow, I was but 
a young lad going to school, and used in vacation times to ride my 
pony over the hills and hollows of Glenariffe for a cup of sweet tea at 
Mistress Avon’s round tea-table, and a generous share of the cakes 
and marmalade with which that hospitable board was wont to be 
spread for my delectation. But at least half my errand there was 
to get a glimpse of tiny Mary Avon’s sleeping face, so fair and 
plump, under the blue canopy of her cot. For baby Mary Avon 
was then to me the mystery of mysteries, as she was in years after- 
wards the pearl, the very sunbeam, the blush-rose of woman- 
hood. | 

I will tread lightly, and but a few steps of this solitary by-path of 
my story. Let the roses moulder there where they fell, snapt from 
their stems so many years ago, and the passion-flowers shrivel into 
dust, and the dead leaves lie in shifting mounds, stirred only by the 
whisper of melancholy winds, undisturbed by the fall of even the 
holiest foot. Mary Avon fled from her home to be the wife of one 
who broke her heart and deserted her child. There are days upon 
which many of the aged can look back, when words and scenes which 
are burned into memory were first branded there. Such old scars still 
sting, when these dulled eyes glance again to the hour when, a strong 
and bearded man, I almost knelt to Margaret Avon in that old red 
drawing-room at Bracken Hollow, and sued for Mary’s memory and 





Bracken Hollow. 59 


Mary’s child. But the crags of Lurgedon are not to be toppled into 
the valley by pecking birds, nor was the wedge of stern resolve to be 
wrenched from Margaret Avon’s soul by prayers. Mary was gone, 
and, as though she had never been, the existence of her child was to 
Temain unrecognised. I took the little orphan home, and if Hugh 
was wronged, I at least was a gainer by his loss. 

Up to this date I had known Margaret Avon as a large, comely 
matron, with prosperity lying smooth on her broad forehead, and a 
helpful magic lurking in the palm of her strong, white hand ; with 
all her actions, impulses of charity, of pride, or of anger ; but that 
blow struck to the root of her life. The tree did not fall, nor totter ; 
it stood on, but the sap was gone. Years went by, and brought death 
twice again to the threshold of the old house, making her a widow, 
and bereft of her only son. Then the strong lines had hardened, the 
soft curves tightened, the good-humoured eyes grown cold, and the 
firm mouth hard. She became a gaunt woman, with a bent masculine 
figure, and a harsh countenance. As such I knew her, still as a 
friend, and often as patient, about the time when, a middle-aged 
bachelor, I found myself settled down under this roof, with the 
physician’s practice of the glens and village for my work, and with 
Mary’s child for something to love, something to keep my heart 
green. For Margaret Avon, sitting sternly in that red drawing-room 
at Bracken Hollow, with her face from the world, and her eyes fixed 
perpetually on her desolate hearth, would not forgive the dead. The 
only tie she recognised was the child of her dead son. The little girl 
had been born in Italy, where her father had passed all the later 
years of his life. In this grandchild, whom she had never seen, all 
the woman’s sympathies with life were bound up. The child was 
said to be delicate, and lest she should inherit her father’s disease, 
consumption, the anxious grandmother had decreed, with bold self- 
denial, that she should remain abroad with the English lady to whose 
care her father had entrusted her education,—should be sunned and 
ripened by Italian skies, till the dawn of her womanhood, and that 
then, and then only, should Glenariffe be her home.- And yet the old 
woman's yearning to see the child was piteous, and I knew that she 
dreaded lest death might seal her eyes before they could be satis- 
fied. 

Years passed. I was grey. Hugh was a man, and would soon be 
a doctor. A naval life would suit him. I felt that he would go off 
in a ship one day and leave me. He had been studying too closely. 
I had sent for him, insisting on a holiday. We were chatting together 
in the garden. It was a bright May evening, the hawthorn blossoms 
were not yet done, the lilacs were in bloom. The sun was red on his 


60 The Irish Monthly. 


face, and the lad was as glad as a child at his new freedom. 
Observing him with pride, I thought him more remarkable for an air 
of inherent power and a dash of frankness, than for mere handsome 
looks. I thought I saw his character in his bearing and countenance, 
pure honour ennobling the brow, fidelity to truth well-opening the 
eye, the hot generous temperament lighting the whole face with 
electric glows and sparkles ; and the careless gaiety of youth dancing 
in lights and shadows on the tossing brown curls under his straw hat. 
Some one spoke to me at the gate. It was a messenger from Bracken 
Hollow, requesting me to visit Mrs Avon. I left Hugh amusing him- 
self with some little fellows on the beach, and went. Margaret had a 
request to make. Grace was on her way home, was in England. 
Friends returning from Italy had brought her as far as their home in 
London. Would I go and fetch her to Bracken Hollow ? 

I thought, Margaret Avon forgets that I am not still the boy who 
used to eat her marmalade at yonder table forty years since, and 
carry her footstool, and go on her errands whithersoever she pleased. 
But the next moment I felt this to be a churlish thought for one old 
friend to harbour towards another, and I promised to go. 

Next day I went. A few words made Hugh understand the 
purpose of my journey. Beyond those few words nothing was said 
between us on the matter. Of course the lad knew all the details of 
his own story, but his position was a subject which he never 
approached, nor did I wish to hear him speak of it. I was sure of his fast 
affection ; he was even too grateful for anything I had done for him; 
but I knew that the pride of the Avons smouldered in the depths of 
his nature. I saw it when he courteously uncovered his head to his 
grandmother on Sundays as she came forth from the village church to 
her carriage, with her eyes fixed on the ground lest she should see 
him. I detected it in the gnawing of the lip and contracting of 
the brows when we stood to admire some rich bit of wooded land with 
a tradition of the Avon family scrawled over the gnarled trunk of 
every old tree. And even more forcibly have I seen it when, by 
chance, he has heard himself alluded to by the kindly peasants 
who compassionated him as “poor Mr Hugh.” I knew he felt the 
sting of the fire himself, and dreaded the occasion which might 
stir it to a blaze. I knew that he wished all the world to recognise 
him as one who felt himself sufficient to carve his own fortune, 
and was too high-spirited to claim any relationship which was so 
cruelly ignored. 

[ went upon my mission. I made my way to a gay house in a 
fashionable part of London. I arrived there in the midst of a brilliant 
entertainment. I was expected, and welcomed. It was all out of my 





Bracken Hollow. 61 . 


way, and I should have yielded to the inclination of fatigue and re- 
tired quietly and at once, but that my curiosity to see Grace would 
not rest till morning. When I made my appearance among the 
guests, I found them engaged in witnessing the performance of 
charades. I took my place as a spectator, and quickly had Miss 
Grace Avon pointed out to me among the performers. Thus, for the 
first time, I saw her in whom afterwards I had so strange an interest. 

Memory has odd whims in her dealings with the materials 
furnished to her. Some she lays by in dim scrolls, seldom to be 
opened and with difficulty. Others are spread, faultless charts, per- 
petually visible, and yet marked out in such dull ink that they are 
little better than blanks. While, again, some trivial chance becomes 
at once a picture, painted in imperishable colours, glowing with unfad- 
ing life, refusing to grow pale with time, or to be darkened by 
shadows. 

I see her now distinctly. It was a thoroughly Italian face, dark 
and clear, with bright lips and a rich cheek. I had never seen anything 
so sombre yet so lustrous as the eyes. Some brilliant drapery was 
folded round her head like a turban, giving an oriental effect. I do 
not know what the charade was; I never thought of asking. The 
idea must have been something about a slave; a slave loaded with 
splendour, and yet chafing under a sense of degradation and captivity. 
At least so she, in her acting, seemed to render it. She went through 
a strange pantomime, wrenching at the gilded chains that shackled 
her wrists, flinging her jewels passionately on the ground, and speak- 
ing forth shame and despair from her dumb face with terrible reality: 
I felt it unaccountably strange to see her thus for the first time, acting 
with such a piteous mimicry of truth in this gay crowd, dressed with 
such magnificence, and expressing so vividly her hatred of herself, 
her beauty, and her adornments. I said, how can this girl act so 
unless she feels it ? What troubles her? Why is she so wretched ? 
And then I smiled at myself for a foolish old man of the mountains, 
who was behind the age, and knew nothing of the cunning of such 
clever displays. But, my beautiful Miss Grace, I said, how will these 
fantastic accomplishments thrive at Bracken Hollow? 

I saw her next at a distance in the ballroom, after the performance 
had ended. She was the centre of a group of evident admirers, and 
was laughing and sparkling all over with merriment. Her dress was 
a robe of something white, which flashed about her as she moved ; 
and I remember that her hair was bound with something blood-red, 
like coral. I saw our hostess,move towards her, for the purpose, I 
knew, of acquainting her with the fact of my arrival. Her cheeks 
had been flushing, her lips smiling, but all at once flush and smile 


62 | The Irish Monthly. | 


vanished, leaving her pale and still. She turned abruptly away from 
the disappointed group, and slowly followed the lady messenger from 
the room. A minute afterwards I was introduced to her in a dim 
ante-room, where the softly-shed light was yet sufficient to show me 
the shrinking step, the pained lip, the white cheek, and the one rapid 
terrified glance from eyes that were instantly averted and obstinately 
refused to meet mine again. 

What was it! Conscience winced. It was true that I had in- 
dulged an unwarrantable prejudice against this girl ; and could it be 
also trua that there may arise, without the communication of a word, 
with scarce that of a look, some swift subtle instinct, passing from 
one spirit to another, warning of the existence of dislike or distrust, 
even as such an instinct is said in other instances to herald the 
approach of faith or of love ? 

Our greeting was short and embarrassed. I had long since for- 
gotten the more polished forms of address between ladies and 
gentlemen of the world. I could have spoken a kind word to this 
frightened child had I met her at home among the mountains, but 
here in these courtly chambers the mere spontaneous good-wil] of 
nature seemed out of place. I saw her glide back to the ball-room 
with a blanched, cowed aspect, but with a something of proud reserve 
that forebade observation. She seated herself at a distant table and 
affected to turn over some drawings, but her face was often averted 
to the shuttered window beside her, as though she studied some 
record of absorbing interest written on the blank of the painted 
wood. And so, despite my former determined indifference to every- 
thing concerning Miss Grace Avon, I retired that night filled with a 
troubled perplexity, and strangely interested in the owner of the cold, 
damp, little hand that had for a moment touched mine, and the 
sombre eyes that had shunned me with an expression so much like 
pain and fear scarcely hidden under their lids. — 

We accomplished our journey in safety, but without effecting 
much more progress towards friendship than we had made on the 
evening of our first acquaintance. An impenetrable reserve sheathed 
the girl. Once or twice I detected her studying my face with a wist- 
ful, questioning expression in her eye, as though some burdensome 
secret hovered on her tongue, and she tried, unseen, to sound me, to 
discover whether or not I might be trustworthy to receive that which 
she had to tell. This was the idea which impressed me at the time, 
and from which I could not free my thoughts. It seemed an absurd 
fancy, for what trouble could she have? And yet the impression 
would not be shaken off, but clung to me with annoying tenacity. 

I assured myself that she was only timid, and shy of appearing. 





Bracken Hollov. 63 


among new friends. It will wear away, I said; and I tried to win 
her confidence and to be as kindly towards her as the thought of 
Hugh would suffer me to be. 

I thought the wondrous vision of our glens will wake her up, for 
I feel that she has a sdul: and who has ever seen our Glenariffe 
without enthusiasm, with its mists and breakers, its heathery crags 
and mossy knolls, its vivid rainbows and thundering falls ?—even 
in its winter aspect, when every mountain that searches its sky 
is white from base to crown, when every pure peak stands like 
a sinless soul expecting its palm, and when the cry of hunted 
waters leaps from crag to crag, and is lost in the appalling gusts 
blown landward from the lips of implacable sea storms. And how 
much more in summer, when the golden sheaves stand upon the 
sunny slopes, leaning their hot shoulders against one another, and 
waiting -for the harvest-home ; when the cunning blackbird scarce 
knows his way through the labyrinths of foliage, and when there is a 
hidden paradise in every far nook where the young ashes bend to the 
water under their secret, and drip, drip their mysterious whispers all 
day, till the sun gets tired searching for them among the thickets, and 
the moon sends a silver token floating down the beck, on the crest of 
a riplet. 

As we entered the glens in the fading sunset, the hills smiled 
serenely, and the sea wes a stretch of pale gold. The cry of the 
mountaineer, as he passed from height to height skyward, searching 
for stray lambs, fell in dreamy echoes through the ether, and we 
could hear at intervals the answering bleat of a sheep from some 
perilous ledge aloft, where it looked to our upturned eyes like a snow- 
flake drifted white upon the brilliant herbage. It was to me a 
moment of exquisite beauty and peace ; but then in my ear the horses’ 
feet were trotting to the music of ‘‘ Home, sweet home !” whereas 
Miss Grace Avon had been nursed under Italian skies, and beheld 
our wild highland scenery with a‘stranger’s eyes. So I forebore to 
disturb her meditation as she sat, quite still, her veil just folded 
above her brows, her pale lips fast shut, and her heavy dark eyes fixed 
blindly on the dimming horizon. 

Arrived at Bracken Hollow a touching picture met our eyes. Out 
in the purple twilight, sown with blazing stars, growing from the 
heavier shadows behind, and framed by the frowniny dovrway, a. tall 
bent figure stood. A shaking, withered hand grasping a stick, a 
rugged face softened with yearning love, a hard-lined mouth un- 
wontedly relaxed and quivering, and frozen eyes melting with foreign 
moisture. So I saw Margaret Avon, and in spite of fidelity to Hugh, 
I was touched to compassion for the woman who, having within her 


64. | The Irish Monthly. 


rills of tenderness so warm, could have suffered pride to petrify her 
life, and turn her to the thing of stone I had known her for the many 
past years. | ' 

So she stood with her one shrivelled hand stretched forth in eager 
greeting. I felt Grace’s fingers slip from my arm, and before I could 
prevent her the strange girl had sunk upon her knees at her grand- 
mother’s feet, with her face to the flags on the threshold. 

“ My child, my dear, my darling ! what is this ?” quavered forth 
the poor old rusty voice, while the shaking hand tried to drag upward 
the bent dusky head from which the bonnet and veil had fallen. “ Be 
not frightened, my love, but welcome, a thousand times welcome, to 
your poor old grandmother’s home,—your poor old grandmother, your 
poor old lonely grandmother !” she kept on repeating, while Grace, 
creeping to her at last with a sob, suffered herself to be gathered to 
the old woman’s heart. I left them sitting on the hearth in the red 
drawing-room, Grace with her face buried in Margaret’s gown, and 
the old hand passing fondly over the thick curls. 

Two mornings afterwards I was sitting by the open window in the 
sun, reading the (Lance. Hugh was standing at the bookcase, 
poring into a book. The parlour door was ajar, and the hall door 
wide open, as it is the fashion for Glen’s hall doors to stand during 
the day. I saw a phaeton, which I knew, draw up a few perches 
away, and in it I saw two figures, which I also recognised. The 
younger sprang from the step, and came quickly toward the cottage. 
She passed in at the gate, in at the open door; a tap came on the 
panel outside, and there she stood before us— Grace Avon. 

Never had anything so bright gladdened our sober little parlour. 
The white dress, the black gossamer shawl hanging from her arms, 
the slouched hat, with its rose-coloured ribbon, crowning the ripe face 
and cloudy curls, all made up a picture whose rich sweetness was & 
feast to the eye. A glamour of enchantment seemed to enter the room 
with her, a southern breeze stirred in the motion of her gown, a 
streak of Italian sunshine seemed to follow in her wake through the 
door. I thought “ Mary's hair was just one shade darker than the 
laburnum blossoms, and Mary’s eyes were the colour of forget-me- 
nots; but this is a beautiful woman.” As she entered, Hugh started, 
and looked up with a hasty glance of honest and ardent admiration, 
whose warmth surprise forbade him to moderate. The young lady 
seemed to resent this involuntary homage of poor Hugh’s ; she flushed, 
returned his bow stiffly, and having delivered her message, followed 
me from the room. 

é“ Who is he ?” she asked, abruptly, in the Hall. 

I was angry for Hugh, and felt harshly towards her at the 
moment. I answered brusquely : 





Bracken Hollow. | 65 


“ He is your cousin, Miss Avon, who has at least as good a claim 
to your grandmother’s favour as you. Were he righted, you would 
not be the wealthy heiress you now are.”’ 

She fell back as though stunned by my words, and I passed her to 
speak to Margaret at the carriage. She wished me to spend the 
evening with them. Margaret did not know of Hugh’s presence at 
the cottage ; but I think, even had he been absent, I should not have 
gone to them that night. Grace gave me a pleading word and look, 
but I was firm. I said: | 

“I am going to visit a patient up the Glen, but I shall not have 
time to call.” 

At twilight that evening I passed near the gates of Bracken 
Hollow at a part where the wall that separates the place from the 
(fen road runs very low, and a stream stumbles its way through the 
wild briars and the tall reeds and brackens from whose luxuriance the 
house takes its name. I was startled by a figure rising up like a 
ghost from amoung the ferns and moss-grown stones beside me. It 
was Grace. She had watched and waited for me there. She wanted 
to know the meaning of my words spoken in the hall that morning 
about her cousin. Was he her cousin? Why had he been wronged ? 
Who had wronged him ? 

I considered a little, and then thought it best to tell her all. She 
would be sure to hear the story, and it was right she should. I told 
her all Hugh’s history; not, I am sure, without a dash of the 
bitterness which would always escape me when I spoke on the subject. 
As I went on, she flushed deeper and deeper, till the crimson blood 
burned under her hair, and even coloured her throat. When I had 
finished speaking, it had ebbed away, leaving her unusually pale. She | 
stood before me, straight and white and scared looking, with the breeze 
blowing the dark hair from her forehead. I moved to go on, but she 
stayed me again imploringly, and commenced asking rapid passionate 
questions. If she had never been born, or if—if she had died asa 
child, would Hugh’s grandmother have been forced to give him her 
affection, to make him her heir ? 

I answered as my ‘conscience dictated : 

“I believe she would. Your grandmother can be stern, but she 
must have something to love. If there had been no one else, I think 
it is likely that she would have relented towards Hugh.” 

She opened her lips, and cried vehemently, with a strain of high- 
wrought suffering : 

“Doctor! I—’ She stopped short, her lips whitened, blue 
shadows gathered under her eyes. I thought she was going to swoon. 

“ My dear child !” I cried, in surprise and alarm, taking her cold 


66 The lrish Monthly. 


hand and placing it firmly on my own arm, ‘‘my dear child, you must 
not distress yourself so deeply about this, it is not your fault.” 
She gave me a piteous glance, bent down her head, and burst into 

a passion of tears, sobbing violently, with her forehead against my 
sleeve. 

‘It is a strange, wayward, and I believe generous nature,” I 
thought, as I went on my way, having sent her back to the house. 

Returning past the gates, and finding myself in a different mood 
from that in which I had refused Margaret Avon’s invitation, I turned 
into the avenue, and walked along by the soft, noiseless turf. Soon I 
was startled for the second time that night by seeing a slight figure 
moving among the trees. It was passing to and fro, to and fro upon 
the grass quite near me. I stopped where a tree hid me from the 
danger of being seen. Heaven knowsI did not mean to bea spy 
upon the poor girl, but I was deeply interested in her. The moon 
shone large and clear down through the branches on the mossy roots 
and trunks, and on the rich wilderness of the underwood, throwing 
dim flitting shadows over the impatient white figure that paced and 
paced, and would not weary nor rest. While I stood, with a fear and 
a foreboding of I knew not what stealing upon me and mingling with 
the sympathy which had been keenly awakened, the figure suddenly 
paused in its walk, the arms were flung above the head in an attitude 
of abandonment, and a loud groanifg whisper reached me through 
the clear stil] air— 

“ Not my fault—not my fault! O God, pity me !” 

I went home. 


PART II. 


The next time that Grace came to the cottage she gave her hand to 
Hugh with an eagerness that made the brave fellow blush and 
tremble like a girl. Her voice was very sweet that day, and her 
manner very soft and subdued. After she had gone, Madge, my old 
servant, gave it as her emphatic opinion (delivered to the cat on the 
kitchen hearth) that “Miss Grace’s smile would coax the birds off the 
bush.” That evening Hugh sat for a long, long time staring out at 
the bay with an expression on his face which I had never seen there 
before. And I thought—‘‘Oh, Hugh, Hugh, my dear lad! is it fated 
that this woman shall bring even yet more trouble upon us ?”’ 

About this time Margaret Avon had a slizht illness, and Grace 


Bracken Hollow. 67 


had an errand to the village on her horse almost every day—for 
books, for medicine, or for the gratification of some whim of her 
grandmother, who insisted on the girl’s riding every morning, lest her 
health should suffer frum the close attendance upon her which Grace 
was disposed to give. But Margaret did not know that Hugh was at 
the cottage, or she would assuredly never have sent Grace cantering 
up to its porch morning after morning, with cheeks glowing, lips 
scarlet, and eyes sparkling with the healthful exercise. I should have 
spoken of his being there, only for the fear of agitating her 
dangerously Ly mentionirg a name which for so many long years had 
been a forbidden one between us. And so Grace came and went, and 
I soon saw how Hugh’s eyes flashed when the clatter of the well- 
known hoofs sounded in our ears through the open window, and how 
eagerly he hurried to the gate to help her from her saddle. 

At last I said to him one day : 

“Hugh, my lad! I think you had better go back to your wor 

He, knowing very well what I meant, met my eyes frankly, and 
said : 

“Yes; I think I had.” 

And he went. 

On Margaret’s recovery her first care was to invite visitors to 
Bracken Hollow. The house was soon filled, and balls and pic-nics 
and boating parties passed the summer days and nights gaily for its 
inmates. I never joined in their amusements, but I looked in now 
and again, just to see how our young Italian rose bloomed on the 
mountain-side ; and, finding her pale and weary-looking, and subject 
to her old strange moods, I ordered her to renew her exercise on horse- 
back. But her gay guests from town did not care for riding, they 
found the Glen roads too rough. 

“Well, then,” I said, “you must ride alone. We cannot have 
grandmamma breaking her heart about those pale cheeks.” 

And after that I had many an early visit from Grace, who would 
arrive at my door of mornings when I was sitting down to my eight 
o'clock breakfast, and flash into the room, crying : 

“Will you give me a cup of your tea, doctor ? Those lazy people at 
the Hollow will not have breakfast for two hours to come.” 

She had some suitors among her gay visitors. On one of these— 
a handsome, wealthy fellow—I thought Margaret Avon looked with 
favour, though I scarcely imagined that she could contemplate part- 
ing with her precious child so soon. But all these fine people seemed 
only to weary Grace, and she evidently regarded as so many boons 
the stray hours spent with me and Madge and Rough. 

Hugh had been gone two months, when one morning I had a note 


68 The Irish Monthly. 


to say that he had taken a dislike to his work, had got headaches, 
and must have a day—if only a day—in the Glens to refresh him. I 
shook my head over the letter. Never had Hugh taken a whim like 
this before. I lifted a vase of flowers arranged by Grace yesterday 
morning, lifted them, breathed their sweetness, and shook my head 
again. ‘‘ Dangerous,” I said; ‘‘ dangerous!” But, feeling that I 
eould do nothing, I was fain to apply niyself to the Zancet, and try to 
forget my perplexities. 

Late that evening, in the midst of the first shower of a thunder- 
storm, Grace’s steed flew to the door, and Grace herself cried with 
comical distress : 

““ Doctor ! doctor ! will you take me in and dry me ?” 

I lifted her, laughing, from the saddle, and carried her in all 
dripping with rain. Madge, with many “ Mercy me-s !” and “ Heart- 
alives !” helped to free her from her drenched habit, and after she 
had re-appeared to me, arrayed in a wrapper of pink print belonging 
to Madge s daughter, with her limp hair brushed wet from her fore- 
head, and her face as fresh as a newly-washed rose, after this I said : 

“ Now, my dear, you are storm-stayed for the night. I have sent 
back the servant to say so to your grandmother. Let Madge set forth 
her best tea-cups and prepare her most delectable griddle-cakes, and 
let us make ourselves as sociable as possible. Your gay friends must 
spare you to us till to-morrow.”’ 

' She laughed, and tears flashed into her eyes, which April-like 
-contradiction of mood was a trick of hers when much pleased. The 
next minute she said abruptly : 

“ Doctor, if I were to be turned out by my grandmother, and to 
come to you a beggar, would you call me‘ my dear,’ and give mea 
night’s lodging till I should find somewhere to go to ?” 

“ Yes,” said I, laughing at her earnestness ; ‘‘ and perhaps. a cup 
of tea, too, if you were a good girl. Aud who knows but I might 
send you to fetch my slippers, and instal you behind my tea-pot as 
housekeeper and stocking-darner to a single old gentleman ?” 

She said, eagerly, “ Would you?” and then turned away and 
wentout of the room. Not long afterwards I heard her putting much 
the same question to Madge, in the kitchen. 

“ Madge, if I were a beggar and came to the back door, would 
you give me a bit of that cake, and call me ‘ Miss Grace, darling,’ and 
let me sit here and nurse pussy on my knee ?” 

And then I heard Madge’s startled rejoinder, 

é“ For the Lord’s sake, Miss Grace! To be sure I would, witha 
cheart an’ a-half !” 

What can fill her brain with such fancies ? I thought. How could 





& 


Bracken Hollow. 69 


her grandmother ever turn against her? Unless, indeed—and then 
my thoughts wandered away to things possible in connection with 
Hugh. But, no; her own two grandchildren— 

Here my reflections were interrupted by a knocking at the door. I 
started to my feet, and flung away my paper. It was Hugh’s knock. 

I saw their meeting that night on the bright sanded hearth of 
Madge’s kitchen, whither Hugh had rushed to shake off his wet 
greatcoat, and from that hour I made up my mind to one thing 
as inevitable, Grace made our tea that night and buttered our cakes, 
and afterwards they two read poetry together at the table, like a pair 
of young fools (I give the name in all tenderness), a pair of wise, 
happy foolish children. 

But the next day brought the cavalier before-mentioned to conduct 
Miss Avon home. He treated me and Hugh with the air of a superior 
being, and I could not but smile as Hugh, having conducted himself 
towards the visitor with much dignified hauteur, finally flung the 
gate, and muttered something fierce between his teeth which I could 
not hear. 

After that little adventure there was an end of Grace’s visits to the 
cottage. Her grandmother heard of Hugh incidentally from the 
eavalier, and Grace was ordered to turn her horse’s head in a different 
direction from the village when she went on her rides. So we saw no 
more of her for some time ; but Hugh had his consolation in hearing 
of the dismissal of the cavalier, who, followed by the rest of the 
visitors, took his way from Bracken Hollow soon after. 

Hugh’s ‘‘ day’ lengthened into some weeks, and he had never 
once seen Grace since that night. Margaret was growing very weakly, 
and I was obliged to visit the Hollow regularly, On these occasions 
it struck me that Grace was looking ill and dejected, I invariably 
found her seated patiently by her grandmother’s side. Poor Margaret 
said her child was the best of nurses. One evening she accompanied 
me to the hall-door. Autumn was waning fast, the sunset glared upon 
the mountains with a frosty fire, the air was disturbed by the constant 
rustling of dead leaves haunting the earth in search of a grave. Grace 
wore a pale grey dress, and the bright colour was gone from her 
cheeks and lips as she stood on the threshold gazing towards the 
horizon, with dull dark eyes just lit by a red reflection from the 
western sky. Although not of a poetic temperament, I could not but 
think she looked more like a spirit than anything else ; much too like 
a spit to please my professional eyes. 

I thought it right to tell her that her grandmother’s disease was 
such as might extinguish life suddenly at any time. I thought it only 
natural that she should cry, but we had no scene. The trouble was 





70 The Irish Monthly. 


strong and genuine, but controlied. As she gave me her hand at 
parting, she said : 

“Doctor, if she were gone, might I not do as I pleased with the 
property which she says will be mine ?” 

I said I believed she might. 

“And if I chose to give it to some one who has a better right to it 
than ‘have, would you help me to return to Italy ? I believe I could 
earn my bread there on the stage.”’ 

I told her she was a foolish child, and had been moped too much 
in the sick room. I made her promise to take a long walk on the 
morrow. . 

Next evening I found Margaret on her couch in the drawing-room 
alone. She had sent the dear child for a ramble, she said. She her- 
self felt much better. Isat a long time by her sofa. The poor old 
lady was in a good humour and communicative. She discussed with 
me the affair of the cavalier, in which, as I had guessed, Grace had 
proved unmanageable. 

“ Do not wonder,” she said, “at my anxiety about it. I am very 
old. I may go any day. I should like to see the dear child happily 
settled before I close my eyes. He is a fine young fellow, and it would 
be a suitable connection for the Avon family. But he will come again, 
he will come again. She will soon tire of this dull life. It must 
come right. I have set my heart on it. And then—” 

é“ Ay!” I thought, “and then?” But that “then” the future was 
destined never to bring forth. I 

“ Give me your arm, dear friend,” she said, ‘‘ and take me to the 
door. I long for a breath of the fresh air.”’ 

We went together to the door, and stood quietly looking out into 
the mild fresh dusk, the deeply tinted shades of a highland twilight. 
Impalpable echoes floated dreamily in the air, stray notes from drowsy 
birds dropped down from startled nooks aloft; the trees seemed 
whispering an audible hush one to another, and now and again a 
brown leaf hovered reluctantly to the ground. 

My eyes were better than Margaret’s, and I was the first to see 
two figures coming slowly from among the trees. I passed my hand 
over my eyes, and looked again. Yes, they were surely coming, Grace 
and Hugh. Quickly I saw that he was almost carrying her, and that 
her arm hung helplessly by her side. As they approached the house, 
I saw what was the matter. The girl’s left arm was broken. I 
believe that surprise at seeing Hugh at first prevented Margaret from 
observing Grace’s accident. In my own anxiety I did not note how 
her face greeted her grandson, but presently I heard her sayin a 
husky voice—that pitiful, quavering voice which always will betray 


Bracken Hollow. | 71 


the emotion of the aged, no matter how strong or stern may be the 
spirit : 

é May I ask, sir, who are you ?” 

I glanced at Hugh. His eyes were wide and bright, his mouth - 
pale and firm. Never had he looked nobler; never had he looked 
more like his mother: Some touching echo in the old lady’s voice 
bade me hope, despite the hard uncourteousness of her words’ How 
would Hugh behave ? 

He uncovered his head deferentially, and announced himself as : 
Hugh Desmond. 

At the name her mouth twitched ominously. Poor old Margaret ! 
she had a struggle before she answered. 

“« Then, sir, I will trouble you to come ‘no further ; you are not re- 
quired here !” 

é“ He saved me,” moaned Grace; ‘ but for him, I should have 
been brought dead to your door.” 

** Dead ! dead !” Margaret repeated in a hurried, terrified voice, 
and I thought she glanced wistfully at Hugh. But the lad looked 
defiant, and the old spirit would not be so easily quenched. I think 
it drew an accession of bitterness and strength from Hugh’s careless 
independence of bearing. She said grimly: ‘‘ You have done well, 
sir, but you have done enough. We will trouble you no more. You 
may go.” 

‘* I will first place my cousin Grace in a less painful position,” said 
the boy, boldly, and at the same time he carried the girl past her into 
the parlour, and laid her on the sofa. 

“ And now I will obey your hospituble commands, madam,” he 
said, bowing to her with the same slightly scornful deference, where 
she stood trembling by, with the frown gathering blacker on her 
brows each second. 

“4 Go !” she whispered hoarsely, pointing to the door with her 
shaking finger. 

é Oh ! wait, wait !’’ moaned Grace. But he was gone. 

She raised her head. She sat up, leaning upon her sound arm. 
Her hand, white and damp with the dew of agony, grasped the 
cushions with fierce effort. Her sufferings must have been almost 
intolerable, but there was something in the wild, dark eyes looking 
from her pallid face, that told of mental pain to which mere physical 
torture was little. 

“ What have you done ?” she cried in a kind of passionate wail. 
“You have driven away the only creature who has a right to rest 
under your roof, your only grandchild. For me, I am nothing to you ; 
nothing, nothing! I solemnly swear that I am not Grace Avon. Grace 
Avon died twelve years ago !” 


72 The Irish Monthly. 


She got up with her white wet face, and broken arm ; she waved 
me off ; she shrank away, and crawled rather than walked from the 
room. I led Margaret toachair. She did not speak, but her face 
' worked piteously. She had got a sore, sore blow. I rang for a trusty 
servant, and followed Grace. At the bottom of the stairs I found my 
poor child, stretched stiff and insensible, with her face buried in the 
mat. I carried her up to bed. It was long before that swoon gave 
way. When it did, there was violent illness and much danger. Late 
that night I stood by Margaret’s bedside. It shook me with trouble 
to see how my poor old friend had aged and altered during the past 
few hours. From that bed I knew she would never rise again. 

“ Don’t send her away !”’ she whispered. “Not yet. I would not 
turn out a dog with a broken leg. Let her get well. But take her 
away when she is better. I cannot sec her. My heart is broken.” 

And she turned her poor face to the wall. Oh, stern soul! Oh, 
inexorable will ! the retribution had come. 

1 found mvself wondering much just then that Margaret should 
have so quickly admitted and comprehended Grace’s strange confession, 
that she had not received it slowly and understood it with difficulty. 

‘But I afterwards knew that she had long suspected the girl of having 
some secret trouble, something that pressed heavily on her conscience, 
which she, Margaret, could not and dared not divine. Therefore it 
was that Grace’s short vehement declaration came upon her, as upon 
me, with all the crushing weight of truth. 

I went back to Grace, and there, in the dead of the night, with 
the lamp between us burning dim, and the shadows lurking black in 
the corners of the big old-fashioned room, I heard all the tale of this 

poor girl’s life and suffering, and unwilling wrong-doing. The pain 
could not force her to keep silent till to-morrow; she must speak, she 
would confess. She writhed upon her pillow, she bit her poor lip, but 
she would go on. 

é“ T was a poor little hungry, wretched, half-naked child,” she said, 
‘begging in the streets. A kind-looking English lady took me by 
the hand and brought me home to her house. Sheclothed and fed me, 
and kept me with her. She taught me, and I loved to learn, and I 
was very happy. She always spoke of my kind grandmother who paid 
her for taking care of me, and who supplied all my pretty frocks, and 
toys, and sweetmeats; and told me that one day I should go across 
the sea, and live with that good grandmother. She seemed very 
anxious that I should forget all about my childhood before coming to 
her, and about that day when she first found me in the street and 
brought me home. But I could not forget. I remembered it all 
distinctly, and, as I grew older, the memory of that part of my life 





Bracken Hollow. 73 


puzzled me greatly. Hints from a servant first made me suspect 
eomething wrong. I spoke to the lady, but she was very angry, and 
would tell me nothing. At last, when the time arrived for me to leave 
her she became frightened, I believe, acknowledged the deceit, which 
she had practised on my supposed grandmother, and conjured me to 
keep the secret, which she said was now mine much more than hers. 
The child left in her care, for whose education and maintenance she 
had been handsomely paid, had died at seven years of age, and her 
selfish dread of losing so good an income had induced her to conceive 
the cruel plan of concealing the death, and substituting another for 
the poor little girl who was gone. I was the unhappy creature on 
whom she fixed for the carrying out of her purpose, choosing me, she 
said, because she thought my face would please my supposed grand- 
mother. . 

“ She told me all this just before my departure for Ireland. My 
trunks were packed, and strangers were to bring me home. I im- 
plored her to write and confess to my—to Mrs Avon, all that she had 
done; but she only laughed, and called me a fool. She said if I kept 
my secret no one need ever know that I was not Grace Avon. She 
said, ‘ What would you do, reared and educated as you have been, if 
you were turned adrift on the world, friendless and penniless? Besides, 
how could you prove your story? Who would believe you? They 
will perhaps place you in a madhouse. I can easily hint that your 
brain is unsound.’ 

é“ When she found that I was not afraid for myself, she reminded 
me of the poor old lady who expected me, who would be so enrapturei 
to see me, and whom the shock of my confession would probably kill. 
I cried all through the nights. I prayed for strength to do what was 
nght. I thought I would tell the friends who came to fetch me, and 
ask their advice. But when they arrived, they were gay, fine people 
and I could not find courage to speak. I fancied how they would stare, 
and shrink away from me 

‘Then I resolved to wait, and tell my—tell Mrs Avon herself 
Whilst travelling here I longed to confide in you, for your kindness 
encouraged me; but still my voice failed me. I could not do it. 
Arrived here, I found it still more impossible to confess to the old 
lady, who was so good to me and loved me so well, that I was only an 
impostor, and that she had no grandchild. And then—when I learned 
Hugh’s story—oh ! what I have suffered since that day! Every hour 
that passed made it more terrible to confess, and every day that rolled 
over my head was another sin added to the mountain of wrong which 
was choking up my life. At times I have thought, she cannot live a 
great many years; I’will try to make her happy during her life. I 

Vor. xvin. No. 200. 66 


74 The Irish Monthly. 


will cling to her faithfully, and nurse her and love her; and when she 
is gone I will give up every penny which she bequeaths me to the 
rightful heir, and go away and try to earn my bread upon the stage ; 
and perhaps the doctor will pity and forgive me, and help me to carry 
out the plan of my new life. 

“I was thinking over all this to-night on the rocks. I was sitting 
on the edge of a bank; it gave way, and I fell from a good height 
down upon the stones. I must have fainted from the shock and pain. 
When I recovered I thought myself dying, and I was not sorry. I 
had suffered so much, and I thought, now my troubles must end, and 
that God would pardon me for the wrong I had so unwillingly done. 
And just then I saw Hugh's face. My eyes and senses were both dim, 
and I thought it was looking at me down from the sky, and then it 
came hovering nearer and plainer, and at last I saw it beside me. He 
lifted me up; I scarcely know how we got here. You know the rest. 
It was very wrong to speak so suddenly; but I could not keep silent 
when I saw him treated so.”’ 

This was her pitiful story. 

For long I scarcely left the house, passing continually from one 
sick room to the other. At last one day I carried Grace down to the 
phaeton, and drove her quietly to the cottage, where Hugh and Madge 
watched for us. And then Grace lay for many days on our little 
parlour sofa, with her bandaged arm and her white cheeks. and all 
her thoughts filled with the puor old lonely lady lying ill at Bracken 
Hollow. And Hugh went about the room like a woman, and mended 
the fire, without noise, and read his book quietly in the corner, and 
when she was able to enjoy it, read it aloud to Grace. And Grace 
said to me one day, “: Doctor, Hugh does not know all, or he would 
not be so good tome. I had rather you would tell him.” And I said, 
“My dear, Hugh knows every word that you told me. Here he is ; 
I will let him speak for himself.” 

And as Hugh came in I went out, calling Rough from his lazy 
haunt beside the sofa. As I put on my great-coat, and turned my 
face towards the glen, I knew very well what would happen before I 
came back. On my return Madge met me at the door with a warning 
é“ Whisht, sir!’ and on entering the parlour I found it filled with 
deep red light from the peat fire, the curtains drawn, the sofa arranged 
by a tender hand, and Grace sleeping softly, with a look upon her face 
which caused me to congratulate myself upon my gift of prophecy. 

Not very long afterwards Hugh and (race were wed, and a day 
was fixed for their departure for India, Hugh having got an appoint- 
ment there. Margaret Avon lay expecting her death; but she would 
neither see nor forgive her grandchildren. She would not even yet 





In the Hospice far the Dying. 7d 


relent. Grace stole in one day whilst she slept, and kissed her withered 
cheek ; and the next day they left me alone. 

They had been gone some weeks when one evening Margaret sent 
forme. She was very weak and very gentle. 

“Dear friend,” she said, ‘‘I have been dreaming much about 
Mary. 1 feel death coming, and I want to see those children. Send 
them to me.” 

Alas, and alas! they were far away, and I had to tell her so. 

“It is my punishment,” she said. “ My life has been all wrong. 
God forgive me !” and she turned her face to the wall. 

* _« * * & * 

Her grave is green. For two years the old house has been dark 
and desolate, and now it will again be filled with life. That letter is 
not a dream ; it is there with its seal and its many post-marks. They 
are coining home. 

I have scribbled away the night. I draw the curtain. Darkness 
wanes, and the sea grows visible. Red lights are struggling in the 
east. God be with the past! It is another day. Rit 


[We are glad of the opportunity which an accident affords to us of res- 
eumy from the pages of a forgotten Magazine one of the earliest tales of a novelis 
with whose mature work our readers are happily familiar. Ed. [.M.] 


IN THE HOSPICE FOR THE DYING, 


O Mary’s Hostel come strange travellers, 
Out of the night, out of the night and rain, 

Stumbling and faint, and sick to death with pain; 
Each bringeth here his cross that no one shares ; 
And rests him here so sweet, and forthwith fares 

Out in the night, the starless night again. 

Only, I think, His Face makes daylight plaia 
Who travels down beside these wayfarers. 


Jesus, O Life, it is the time of Birth! 
Thy Star is in the House of Birth for Thee; 
Thy Mother’s Expectation draweth nigh. 
Slay Thou this death that slayeth all the earth, 
Or open Gates of Heaven, that we may see 
How Death is Birth, and those new-born who die ! 
KaTHARINE TYNAN. 
December 13th, 1889. 


76 The Irish Monthly. 


A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 


[t was some months since I had seen or heard of her. The 

report of her ilness, and then, a few days after, the news of 
her death came upon me as @ shock. She was about the last 
person with whom I associated the idea of death. 

I met the funeral at the cemetery. Unless when closely 
related to the deceased, or where I can be of some use to the 
family, I have a repugnance to attending funerals in a carriage. 
The quiet of one’s own thoughts is most fitting on such occasions. 
In a carriage, often with those one does not know, the conversation 
quickly falls from a few commonplaces regarding the character, 
property, and family of the deceased, into general topics— 
business or politics; and laughing and joking often supervene, or 
the newspapers are produced and read. 

The morning was harsh and cold. We warmed ourselves at 
the stoves in the waiting room at the cemetery gate, and looked at 
the photographs of monuments that hung on the walls. We were 
a mixed company ; several of the Hospital nurses (some of whom 
had wreaths to lay on the coffin), a few of the committee, two 
Catholic clergymen, although she was a Protestant, and it a 
Protestant cemetery, several gentlemen I did not know. With 
the funeral came more of the committee and some of the doctors. 

There was something awful to me about funerals, when first, as 
a boy, Iattended them. Now, unless where my feelings are closely 
concerned, I fear they have become terribly commonplace. I have 
now walked behind such an army of relatives and friends to their 
last bodily resting places, yet through all they have not lost their 
solemnity, and the conversation that goes on at them grates upon 
me. Ido not understand why it is upon such occasions that people 
cannot keep their mouths shut, if even only for a few minutes. If 
it is conversation they want, and not thoughts about the deceased, 
why do they attend? Emmet’s words constantly recur to me on 
such times: “Grant me the charity of your silence.” Yes, ought 
we not at least to grant the dead the charity of our silence? Silence 
is on most of the solemn oocasions of life the expression of the 
deepest feeling. 





A Sketch from Life. 17 


The morning was, as I have said, harsh and cold. As the. 
clergyman read the service, we sheltered ourselves from the bitter 
wind as best we could behind the tombstones round the grave. 
She had died of typhus, caught in the discharge of her duty, and 
it was not thought safe to have the ceremony in the chapel. 
What a reverence we should have for all those rites, however 
diverse they may be, by which people of different creeds, and in 
different tongues, and of different races, and different nationalities, 
console and support themselves as they lay their loved ones in 
the ground. 

The service was soon over, the grave filled in, such of us as 
were intimate enough said a few words to the bereaved relatives, 
and we hurried off to our daily life. 

However. it is not this funeral I desire to dwell upon, but the 
fresh, bright personality of the person who had been taken from 
us. “ 38” was on the coffin: she must have been about 26 when 
first I knew her. She was Lady Superintendent of a hospital in 
which I had been one of the committee. 

I think I see her now—with her fresh bright complexion, blue 
eyes, golden hair, the pleasant expression of her face, the at times 
saucy toss of her head. She dressed simply and in good taste; on 
the hospital premises invariably in some neat washing material, 
spotlessly clean. She was a pleasing picture as, in answer to our 
summons, she came into the boardroom for a few minutes’ conver- 
sation and counsel at the close of each of our meetings. 

How her eyes would dilate, what a surprised turn she would 
give her head, if we had anything to suggest in the direction that 
it was just possible something might be going not altogether to 
our mind in her department. Rusty old fogies, and married men 
as we were for the most part, it was impossible entirely to steel our 
hearts and preserve 9 Spartan firmness, if, as at times it was 
perceptible that the blue eyes were getting moist. Must I confess 
that at times it is just possible that she managed us as much as we 
managed her ? 

Yet, upon the whole, her management was everything that 
could be desired, and, upon her death, the uppermost feeling was— 
how difficult it would be to fill her place. Wards, laundry, store- 
rooms, kitchen, everything was kept in the best of order. Indeed, 
we often had to complain that, in her desire for completeness, 
she led us into unnecessary expense. Her control over the 


e 


78 The Irish Monthly. 


nurses, if at times arbitrary and wayward, was complete and 
considerate. | 

She was excellent in her treatment of the cases of poor girls 
that had gone astray, which inevitably came before her in such a 
mixed institution. One sweet, attractive, foolish creature, I 
remember, who was wheedled into a “ marriage,” which turned out 
to be no marriage at all, and who was then deserted. How our 
Lady Superintendent stood by that girl, and tried to shield her, 
and looked after the child, and then took her into her service. 

It was in the wards, and amongst the sick and dying, that she 
shone most—more particularly with children, for whom she occa- 
sionally bought toys out of her own pocket. Her fresh, bright, 
cheery presence was in itself enough to work a cure in the 
patients—that is, when some neglect by a nurse, or provoking act 
of insubordination did not call out her quick temper. 

And she was absolutely fearless—now tucking the clothes round 
a patient lying in small-pox or typhus; again, lifting the head of 
a child tossing in scarlatina and settling the pillows under it. I 
‘have seen a stray lock from her hair falling on the fevered face of 
one as she bent over it. 

In the patients she had often a provoking enough set to deal 
with. 

“Sure, what do you mean? Only for the likes of us you 
would’nt be here,” was the rejoinder of one to her remonstrance 
regarding the unnecessary trouble being given. 

Wretched, dissolute women, men broken down after debauches, 
rickety children, the offspring of vive,—a life of misery before 
them, and the probability that they were, perhaps, more likely to 
hand on their idiosyncrasies than to bring up virtuous children,— 
such were those with whom she had too often to deal, and for 
whom some of the most valuable lives in the-community are neces- 
sarily being staked. It was in the preserving of such lives, in 
cases of typhus, that sne lost her own. 

How had she ever come to immure herself in hospital life ? 
She professed to scorn the ordinary seeking of women after 


-spheres, and used jokingly to declare, that to be courted and married 


was woman’s only true place. Reforms and social questions, were 
entirely outside the circle of her sympathies. She did not trouble 
herself about doctrinal matters; and as for politics, she knew 
nothing about them. At heart, I imagine, she was a conservative. 





A Sketch from Life. ‘79 


She visited England often, and once the Continent, and even 
the Antipodes, partly for business purposes. I certainly never 
expected to see her back from these longer excursions. Í felt sure 
she would captivate someone. But back she always came, and ' 
settled down quietly to the dull routine of her duties. 

She was fond of the theatre and music. Her parlours were 
models of dainty, refined comfort. Her salary was good. I once 
urged her to look forward to the future, and to save. ‘ Indeed, 
I have no notion of it,” she said. “1 will enjoy myself while I 
can; and then, you may depend, I’ll get someone to take care 
of me.” . 

Yet she did save several hundred pounds, I was told; but she 
left no will, and I believe it went away from those nearest to her, 
to relatives who cared, perhaps, little about her. 

She spent more than one evening at our house. She was plea- 
sant company, a good talker, and played the piano in an off-hand 
manner—not very deep music, but lively waltzes and the like. 

Iwill not soon forget one of her anecdotes, of an encounter 
with acabman. He demurred after she had entered the cab and 
told him where to drive; he was sorry, but the truth was, he was 
engaged. She told him not to be foolish; positively declined to 
leave, and told him to drive on. Whereat he sulkily shut the 
door with a bang, and grumblingly exclaimed: “ Oh, I see you 
are one of the clever ones,” and drove off. 

She had appeared so completely proof against infection all her 
life, that it appeared almost unnatural that she should succumb to 
it at length. | | 

I often think of her; when I do, it is not in connection with 
illness or funerals. I like to think of her in her best days, as she 
lit up the fever-stricken wards of the hospital with her presence, 
as she leaned over children and smoothed their pillows. 

In summer evenings, long before I knew her, sounds of music 
and sinying used to come picasantly from the open windows of a 
house on our road. I afterwards learned that it was she and her 
brothers and sisters that were the musicians. They resided there 
with their mother. The troubles of life had not yet scattered the 
family. I like to think of her when I hear musio wafted out of 
open windows on summer evenings. 

ALFRED WEBB. 


80 The Irish Monthly. 


THE PRAYER OF SAINT ATTY.* 


A LEGEND OF ACHONRY. 


ING Connor made an edict old: 
“ A royal palace I will build ; 
Tribute I order of the gold, 
From every clan and craftsman’s guild. 


é Tithings of scarlet and of silk, 
Curtain and screen of regal woof, 

Deep-uddered heifers, rich in milk, 
And bronze and timber for the roof. 


“From Leyney’s lord, in token due 
Of fealty, I will ordain 

A hundred masts of ash and yew, 
A hundred oaks of pithy grain.” 


“ Saint Atty, keep us safe from scath, 
And shield us in the battle crash ! 
For roof of royal house or rath 
We will not render oak or ash! ” 


Thus lowly prayed the Leyney clan, 

While sang the birds in bush and brake, 
As fast they mustered, horse and man, 

To face the foe by Gara's lake. 


For, wroth at heart, came Vonnor’s clan ; 
Ah, Christ! they made a horrid front, 

With red spears bristling in the van, 
And shields to brave the battle-brunt. 


From wing to wing in wrath they rolled, 
Crested with helmets all afire, 

Of burnished bronze or burning gold, 
To martial measures of the lyre. 


* Saint Atty is the loving name of the people of Achonry for Saint Attracta, 
the patroness of the dioccse. 








The Prayer of St, Atty. 8I 


A dreadful war! the blessed saints 
Defend to-day the Leyney clan ! 

For they must reel before the steel 
Of such a hosting, horse and man. 


From sounding sheaths the swords flamed out, 
The clattering quivers echoed loud, 

From their dark ranks the battle shout 
Broke out, as thunder from the cloud. 


“Saint Atty, keep us safe from scath !”’ 
Thus made the Leyney men their prayer ; 
When lw! adown the forest path 
Trooped, lily-white, a herd of deer! 


Broke from the branching thicket green, 
While mute the watching warriors stood ; 


Such gracious deer were never seen 
In Irish fern or Irish wood ; 


And, mighty marvel, on their backs, 
Bound by a maiden’s tresses gold, 

Clean-hewn as if by woodman’s axe, 
The tribute of the wood behold ! 


Nor paused the sylvan creatures sweet, 
But gliding onward, like to ghosts, 
Cast off the wood at Connor's feet 
In wondrous wise betwixt the hosts ; 


Then vanished in the forest green, 

While mused amaze the king and kern; 
And nevermore from then were seen 

In Irish wood or Irish fern. 


Down dropped the sword to thigh and hip, 
“ God's will be done, let hatred cease! ”’ 
Rose up the cry from every lip, 
And harps attuned a chord of peace. 


82 


The Irish Monthly. 


Yea, blessings broke from every lip, 
To God and to His saints ahove, 
And hands that came for deadly grip 
Were mingled in fraternal love. 


‘“‘’Gainst scath or scar our battle-shield 
Is Atty, saint of Leyney’s clan!” 

They sang, as homeward from the field 
They hied, unscathed, horse and man. 


For in her chapel in the wood 
The boding war had Atty seen, 
And for tbe people of her blood 
Made prayer amid the forest green. 


And men do say that on, that day 
She saved the Leyney clan from scath, 
Such power there is when lowly pray 
The pure of heart and keen of faith. 


And still when autumn gilds the lea, 
And scythes are shrill in meadows ripe, 
The rural pageant you may see 
Sporting with jocund dance and pipe. 


The village women you may mark 
In Leyney, at Saint Atty’s well, 

Ere yet hath trilled the risen lark 
In golden mead or dewy dell. 


Parrioxk J. CoLteman. 





83 


WALTER CRANE AND DENNY LANE 


ON 
ART EDUCATION. 


V [THERE is hardly any editorial sanctum where the intelligent 

scissors department is such a complete blank as that from 
which our Magazine issues. This independence of borrowed 
matter is due, partly to the limited number of its pages, and partly 
to the unlimited number of its friends. Nevertheless, we have 
oocasionally condescended to rescue from oblivion observations 
that seemed to us sufficiently noteworthy for such a distinction, 
even though they might have previously been in print in the 
ephemeral columns of some local newspaper. Such an exception 
must be made in favour of a letter and a speech in connection with 
the distribution of prizes last December, at the Crawford Municipal 
School of Art, in Cork. The Head Master, Mr. W. A. Mulligan, 
had invited Mr. Walter Crane, and, when the latter was unable to 
come from London, Mr. Mulligan suggested that a letter from his 
pen would be the next best encouragement in place of the words of 
his lips. Mr. Crane complied with the request. After explaining 
these circumstances, and expressing his belief that the works that 
won prizes in the Cork School of Art were of a high standard, Mr. 
Crane proceeds :— 


“Now, I am not one of those who are at all satisfied (as possibly 
you may be aware) with the present state of things, either in Art, 
Pohlities, or Society, and if, as regards Art, I were asked what was 
the best way to learn something about Art, [ should say in the 
workshop of a good craftsman, or in the studio of a good artist ; 
for Art of any kind requires actual demonstration; 1t cannot be 
taught by rule or precept—it is not a matter of invariable and 
abeolute principle—there is always room for individual choice, and 
for the development of individual thought and feeling. Nature 
is not a fixed quantity. People often say such and such a work is 
‘like nature;’ but nature is always changing; if it were not so I 
doubt if there would be any art. But, as the seasons roll by, and 
with them the pageant of life with all its intense human interest, 


84 The Irish Monthly. 


thoughts and ideas are kindled in the mind; so we would cast 
them in some graphic or plastic-shape before they fade. Nature is 
impartial ; indifferently she gives you noble and base, tragedy and 
comedy, significance and insignificance. It is for the artist to put 
the puzzle together, to bring harmony out of discord, order out of 
chaos, and to transfigure with the light of beauty and poesy the 
commonest things. 

“ Jt was said (I think by John Ruskin) of Rembrandt, that he 
had qualities by which he could make a hay barn sublime. It is 
very much a question of treatment. In fact, in treatment and 
selection may be said to lie the «wzhole secret of Art. I look upon 
Art, in its true sense, as a language which is capable of expressing 
the higher life, thoughts, and aspirations of a people, as well as 
its familiar joys and sorrows. Nor is this power of expression 
limited to certain forms, such as painting and sculpture, but may 
be associated with the things of daily use and circumstances—the 
feeling for home and our household goods—the sacredness of our 
hearths—which, alas, has been so rudely and ruthlessly ignored of 
late in so many cases by the powers that be—which, in fact, our 
modern economical system can find but little room for anywhere, 
it appears to me. 

“Now Ireland has a great future before her. My friend 
William Morris has well said that times of good Art have been 
‘times of hope;’ and, bearing in mind that neither natures nor 
men live by bread alone, and that the highest expression of 
individual life—as of social and national life—must be finally 
sought in Art, we shall see how important a matter it is, what is 
life without beauty and refinement ? And how can we have beauty 
and refinement without security of living and some leisure and 
freedom? Even amid the anxious and feverish existence of the 
present, those of us who have ever knocked at the golden gate of the 
House of Art know what a sanctuary is there. Having regard to 
the training of eye, hand, and mind, which the practice of any 
form of Art necessitates, and the qualities of patience, uí foresight, 
of method, of care, and of perseverance, which it calls forth in 
dealing with design or material of any kind; or even in the many 
problems that have to be solved in the process of simply and 
honestly drawing from nature; having regard to its moral and 
intellectual effect, and to its bearing on the happiness and social 
welfare of individuals or peoples, I do not hesitate to say that an 
education in Art is the best of educations.” 


Art Education. 85 


Mr. Crane’s letter ended with some graceful expressions of 
good will, and then Mr. Denny Lane proposed a well deserved vote 
of thanks in the following appropriate terms, of which we are-glad 
to make our own. were it only for the sake of giving his high 
opinion of the [msh sculptor, Mr. Lawlor, of whom many of his 
countrymen hear now for the first time. But, besides, the author 
of “Kate of Araglen” has the knack of making such things 
hterature :— 


“You have heard to-night the words in which Mr. Crane has 
sent us a greeting across the sea, and I cannot refuse the request of 
your master to thank him for his kind thought of us, and, in 
return, in the old-fashioned way, which he loves so well, to wish 
him‘ A merry Christmas and a happy New Year.’ Although I 
have never met Mr. Crane, I have long known his works, and 
spent many an hour with them—with his Pan Pipes, and his 
dlasque of Flowers, with his Fairy Tales, and even with his Baby’s 
(Opera. Perhaps it may be that a second childhood resembles the 
first, for I know it is very pleasant, though you may have lost your 
admiration of bread and jam, that you can still retain your 
love of picture books—a love which has never waned with me, and 
of these books none have given me greater, pleasure than those | 
which have sprung from the fertile fancy of him who has wished us 
“God speed” to-night. If humour which is fantastic without ever 
being forced, if grace of form and charm of motion, if an old world 
sentiment, which has lost nothing of its sentiment because it is clad 
in a garb of antique quaintness, if harmony of hue and simple 
schemes of colour, woven together into a harmonious tapestry, are 
to be valued, where are we to find these qualities better united than 
in the works of Walter Crane? Again and again have I gone 
back to his books, which I bought years ago for my children, and 
every time I swallow draughts from that Fontaine de Jouvence, that 
perennial fountain of youth, which, I trust, butbles up yet amongst 
the oldest of us. And, turning my eyes away from these, my 
memory flies back to the picture books of sixty years ago. I 
oogratulate, and I almost envy the children cf the present day, 
who have prepared for them such a grateful feast, in place of the 
meagre and unwholesome fare provided for them at the time I 
speak of. 


“ Perhaps in some collection of antiquities, you might still find 


86 The Irish Monthly. 


copies of the chap-books of three score years ngo—the ‘three- 
penny plain, and sixpenny coloured’ histories of Obi, or Three- 
Fingered Jack, or of Bamfylde Moore Carew, the Miser, or, mayhnp, 
the History of Brennan, the Robber, or Napoleon’s Book of Fate, by 
which you could foretell with certainty what was going to happen— 
an art which even stockbrokers have lost, and by which a man 
might secure a fortune out of water-gas or electric sugar. One 
long folding plate, coloured by a hand that wandered unconfined, 
and occasionally let the blue of the coat stray into the apex of the 
nose, and the red of the pelisse rise as far as the pupil of beauty’s 
eye. Boldness and breadth were not wanting in the touch of the- 
artist, who revelled in the primary colours; but they are gone! and 
never again can I weep over the sorrows of a Black-eyed Susan 
who was principally yellow ochre, as she parted from a Sweet 
William who was all Prussian blue, and who was regarded with 
envy and jealousy by an Admiral of the Red, who, regardless of 
expense, was all vermilion. Alas! they are gone! but in our 
sorrow for their loss let us be consoled by the thought that all 
picture-books are not gone, and that our well-wisher to-night has 
furnished our children and ourselves with a panorama wherein a. 
long procession passes along. Our old friends, the Sleeping Beauty 
dances along with Blue Beard, and the Three Bears gallantly 
escort. Cinderella and Goody Two Shoes. 

é One remark of Mr. Crane’s has struck me much—one which 
to a certain extent gains my assent, and, to a certain extent 
provokes my dissent. He says the ‘best way to learn something 
about Art is in the workshop of a good craftsman, or the studio of 
a good artist.’ It may be the best way, but it would be unfor- 
tunate for us if it were the only way. Good Art craftsmen can 
hardly remain among us; when they become capable they are 
attracted away to the great centres of work and wealth, and so it is 
with nearly all our painters and sculptors. One of the latter has 
come back amongst us, and [ am proud that I have-been instru- 
mental in wooing back to his native land my friend Mr. Lawlor, 
who stands in the front rank of modern sculptors, and who has 
generously promised to aid us in our school; but, as a general 
rule, the magic magnetism of wealth draws towards its centre 
talent of every kind. 

“In other times it was not always so. A great artist went to 
reside at a convent, where he received little more than bare 


Art Education. 87 


subsistence, and enjoyed the privilege of decorating the Church 
with works which have remained a possession for ever. Many 
such works have I seen, for instance, in Nuremberg, where 
Adam Krafft and his three companions, ‘ for the love of God and 
St. Laurence,’ devoted seven years to carving that wonderful 
Sacraments Haus, an edifice of stone which seems to grow like 
a beautiful plant until its topmost frond expands its leaflets amidst 
the groining of the roof. Or in the same city where Peter Vischer 
and his five sons wrought for eleven years at that bronze and silver 
shrine of St. Sebald, a work which had remained unsurpassed for 
centuries. So, in the Campo Santo, at Pisa, did Benozzo Gozzoli 
work for sixteen years to produce the twenty-four wall pictures, for 
each of which he received 66 lire, or £2 15s. So, in an earlier 
day, did Duccio paint the front of the great altar-piece of Siena, 
receiving wages of 16 soldi, or 8d. a day, until his employers put 
him on piece work, and, wishing to save material, got him to. 
pant thirty-eight pictures on the back of the panel, for which he 
received the princely price of 24 gold florins, or eight shillings 
apiece. How different from the painters of this time, who build 
palaces, and are paid for a picture by so many strata of gold pieces 
laid on its surface, and when the highest artist, at the instigation 
of Mr. Pears, blows opalescent bubbles more costly than the 
genuine moonstones of the mine. 

“Yet, although our city can seldom retain a first-rate craftsman 
in the sense used by Mr. Crane, our school can teach many of the 
principles which underlie all arts and crafts, and can protect us 
from some of the dangerous examples of worthless and unlovely 
crafts. I need not go back even so far as the period of sixpenny 
coloured chap-books to refer to one art on which many an hour of 
precious time and many’ an ounce of more precious wool was 
wasted—I mean Berlin wool-work. I shudder as I think of the 
penalties which I suffered when I saw, and the wrongs I did to my 
conscience when I had to praise, the works of an amiable daughter 
presented for my admiration by an adoring mamma. In those days 
I was more or less of a diner-out, and I had to praise, or else I 
would never be asked again. ‘ No song, no supper.’ To this day 
there remain deeply graven in my memory those wondrous pro- 
ductions of patient ineptitude. The troubadour with a serrated 
nose who serenaded a lovely maiden, while he accompanied himself 
on an instrument of music which puzzled the beholder. One could 





88 The Irish Monthly... 


never make up his mind as to whether it was a stringed instru- 
ment or a wind instrument, for it was certainly either a guitar— 
or a bellows. And the lovely maiden herself, with a chevelure 
that outrivalled, though it certainly did not ouéstrip, that lady 
whom we see on all the hoardings, and who has fertilized her hair 
with Mrs. Allen’s hair restorer. That lovely maiden I can never 
forget ! as she displayed from her balcony a cheek deeply . pitted 
with madder-lake and an eye like the ace of clubs. I can never 
forget her! She haunts my memory still! Let us hope that the 
principles we teach in our school, and the examples which we can 
show, will for the future protect the eyes of beholders and the 
consciences of corrupt critics from the spotted fever of coloured 
wool. 

é“ You are all aware, as indeed Mr. Crane confesses, that he and 
his friend Mr. William Morris, are almost social democrats; but I 
must say that in their ‘ Arts and Crafts Exhibition’ last year I 
saw little within the reach of shallow purses. Nearly everything 
was designed for the rich, and, with the exception of some books, 
most of the works were meant for the wealthy. I must confess I 
was disappointed at this, for I had hoped that in their hands, at 
least, art would have come down from the raised dais of rank, and 
have placed below the salt many a form in which beauty was com- 
bined with use, wrought in pewter and not in gold. But I suppose 
it is only another instance of the truth that ‘ extremes touch.’ 
Mr. Crane has spoken of our era in Ireland as an era of hope. God 
grant his omen may be true ! We are passing through what, 
if not deeply troubled, are at best turbid times. We are in fact 
passing through a revolution, and let us hope that the turbidity 
. we see is only that which always accompanies fermentation, through 
which the juice of the purple grape has to pass before the troubled 
must clarifies into the ruby wine. Of the capacity of our people 
for art I have no doubt; of their patience and devotion I have 
much. These are qualities which are formed, and could not have 
grown up amongst our forefathers, vexed with persecution, unable 
to reap where they had sown. Generations, with whom religion 
was trammelled and education proscribed, leave behind them 
traces of the evils from which they have suffered. Let us hope 
that a new day is dawning, that the shalows are passing away, 
and that as with others, in the words of Mr. Morris, ‘the era of 
hope may also be the era of art.’ ”’ 





Tico Unpublished Letters of Dr. Livingstone. 89 


THE CHILDHOOD OF FATHER DAMIEN. 


WEET child, the sunlight on thy face is dark 
With no forecasting shadows of the end, 

As in thy childish glee I see thee wend 
Among the sheep-tracks, where the soaring lark, 
At early dawn, like to a holy clerk, 

Sings orisons. Already dost thou tend 

The sheep—an earthly charge, nor apprehend 
The heavenly, that thou ‘ press towards the mark”’ 
Of thy high calling in the distant land 

Of Molokai. And on thy boyish face 
The flush of health, unmarred by leprous hand, 

Is spread, until it be by heavenly grace 
Replaced, at sunset when the earthly strife 
Has reached the awful mystery of life. 

W. G. 


TWO UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF Dr. LIVINGSTONE. 


Tost who are not already acquainted with the character and 

career of David Livingstone, the great African explorer, 
ought to read the excellent account of him given by Mr. Thomas 
Hughes, Q.C., in the English Men of Action series, published last 
year by Messrs. Macmillan. ‘The first of these letters was written 
in his 49th vear, for he lived from 1813 to 1873. We found these 
letters among the papers of Dr. C. W. Russell, President of May- 
nooth. Curiously enough, both letters, with an interval of three 
vears between them, are addressed to the “ Rev. James Russell, 


- 


D.D.” :— 


é“ River Zambesi, Africa, 
é 29th Dee., 1862. 
s Tne Rav. James Russett, D.D. 
‘ Dear Sin, 
é If you allow me, first, to explain my reasons for writing, I 
think you may the more readily excuse the liberty I take in troubling you. 
VoL. xvmi. No. 200. 56 





90 The Lrish Monthly. 


“ T have a strong impression that the Jesuit missionaries who laboured in this 
country previous to their expulsion by the Marquis of Pombal, had translated books 
into the language of Senna and Tette, for I find that among some of the oldest 
natives portions of prayers—the Creed, &c.—are remembered in their own tongue ; 
and these are always referred to the teaching of the Jcsuits—not to the priests who 
succeeded them. I tried to induce the priest at Tette to search for any books that 
may exist at Gou, but something prevented him from visiting his native place. I 
then engaged a merchant of Goa to try and procure the loan of any books, and 
offered tu be at all the expense of copying them; but in this case too I have been 
disappointed. I feel anxious to possess some memorials of these devoted pioneers 
of Christianity in this land. This is one reason for my search; another is, to im- 
prove myself in the language. I am now on my way up to Lake Nyassa, and hope 
to place a steamer on it, and du somewhat to stop a stream of 20,000 +laves that 
anuually flows from that region towards the Red Sea and Persian Gulph. 

“ You can scarcely conceive what difference in influence it makes whether one 
speaks the native language well or not. And the help of a book in mastering the 
particles is very great. It has often occurred to me that, probably, what I failed 
tu reach in Goa may be in existence in the Library of the Vatican, if I only knew 
how to get at it. I daresay you will smile at the idea of my writing to you on 
such a subject; and, to tell the truth, I have thought of writing to you again and 
uyain, and as often put the thought aside. Now I do it at last, with something of 
‘* just to ease my conscience,’’ and possibly you may be able to give me a clue tu 
obtaining what I want. Anything printed in the languages of Tette, Senna, or the 
Maravi would be a great boon. and I would take good care to print it, and render 
all honour to them to whom it may be due. The mission of the English Universities 
is working at the language, but it takes a long series of years to reduce a dialect 
uccurately, It took Mr. Moffatt, of Kuruman, at least seven years cf hard labour ; 
but now thoge who possess his books can speak fluently in seven months. 

é should it be inconvenient, pray do not trouble yourself to write any answer, 
and, in any case, excuse the liberty I have taken in addressing you. 

‘‘ Anything sent to Mr. Lennox Conyngham, Foreign Office, Nowning Street, 
London, will be forwarded. a 

“ I am, dear Sir, 
“ Your humble servant, 
“ Davip Livinestons.”’ 


The other letter is dated from: Lord Byron’s old home, where 
Dr. Livingstone lived for eight months, writing his second account 
of his travels, the guest of Mr. Webb, the African hunter :— 


“ Newstead Abbey, 
é“ Mansfield, Notts., 8th January, 1865. 
“ My pear Sir, 

é You were kind enough to make some enquiries respecting translations 
made by Catholic missionaries in East Africa, and, fearing that you may have been 
unsuccessful, I take the liberty of enclosing part of a proof sheet, which can yet be 
altered if you think that I had better not say what I have advanced. I tried a 
Monsignor who visited Goa, through a member of the family with which I am 
living, and he, thinking that the Portuguese had destroyed any manuscripts they 
muy have found, gave me no hope of success. I think that the unblushing state - 


¢ 


To a Sea-Shell. 9L 


ments of the Portuguese ought to be noticed, on the score of justice to the memo- 
ries of the earlier missionaries. I fear that the Portuguese themselves werv 
worthlesa. Not a vestige of memorial or tradition could I discover at Alozambique 
of St. Francis Xavier; and their own deficiencies may have induced them to vilify 
better men. But if you think that I may do more harm than good by noticing 
the matter as I do, I shall esteem it a favour if you kindly mark offensive parts. 

é You will, I trust, excuse my troubling you thus; and if you can return 
the proof at an early period, I shall esteem it a favour to 

i“ Yours most sincerely, 
“ Davin Livingstone. 

‘* The proof is part of another book like my last ; and I do not for a moment 
ask you to endorse anything, but only to say if my statements are likely to ke 
offensive to Catholics here at home.”’ 


TO A SEA-SHELL 


BROUGHT FROM NORWAY. 


Y thy lips kiss’d mine ear doth list 
To spirits of the sea 
That lonely dwell, O beauteous shell, 
Far from their kin—in thee! 
Their voices sweet, secrets repeat, 
Secrets ’twixt them and me. 


Long buried things their whisper brings 
Back from the tomb, things I 

Have heard and seen in their demesne 
In blissful hours gone by, 

On moonlit waves, in dim sea-cavés, 
By shores ’neath Norway’s sky. 


Me it delights to hear these sprites, 
The while they love to tell 
Of that old time in their dear clime ; 
It saddens both as well; 
My bright dream’s o’er, they’ll see no more 
Their home and thine, sea-shell ! 
G. T. 





92 | The Irish Monthly. 


A MODERN CONVERSATION. ' 


WAS staying a few weeks ago with my friend, Mr. Russell, 
near Dublin. Among those who were staying in the house 
were several thoughtful, cultivated people, so that I heard many 
interesting subjects discussed. (ne evening the conversation 
turned on social questions. I happened to be sitting near Mr. 
Talbot, an English Member of Parliament. ‘ What a munificent 
gift this is of Sir Edward Guinness!” I said to him. “ It seems 
to me to show that people are getting out of the way of thinking 
with the Manchester School. Thirty years ago, in the good old 
days of /aissez-fuire, this would have been rank heresy.” 

“Oh, of course, we are all becoming more socialistic,” said 
Talbot. “ But, you see, he is not going to pauperize the people; 
the fund is to be laid out and the lodgings hired on strictly busi- 
ness principles.” 

“I don’t like the thing at all,” said Hume. “There was a 
great deal of truth in those doctrines of Jaissez-faire. As you say 
truly, Talbot, we are rapidly becoming State Socialists, and we 
are forfeiting our commercial supremacy at the same time. What 
made us great was honest energy and independence, and it is 
through effeminate, sentimental philanthropy that we are losing 
our greatness. There is a Russia waiting to conquer us, which 
has none of this sickly sentiment about it. Of course, I must ad- 
mire Sir Edward Guinness’s generosity ; but I cannot help con- 
necting the gift in my mind with that silly fiasco of the dockmen’s 
strikes. It seems to me like a propitiatory sacrifice to appease an 
insatiable democracy.” 

“ Tf you call it conscience-money too late paid for gain gotten 
from the misery and drunkenness of the poor, you would be nearer 
the mark,” said Woulfe, a young, pale-looking man, who sat a 
little way off—at which ferocjous remark the ladies near shrank in 
horror, as though from an escaped convict. | 

é“ My dear Hume,” said Russell, “you are quite a pagan in 
your views. Surely’ society is constituted for the good of all. 
Energy and independence are admirable qualities, but they are 
the gifts of the strong; the weak have a place in society as well. 
The fortunate and successful in life’s struggle really have duties 





A. Modern Conversation. 93 
há 


towards their weaker brethren. Sir Edward Guinness has shown 
that he feels this duty, and he has made an attempt to fulfil it 
which is truly magnificent.” 

** Don’t you think also, Mr. Russell,” said Miss Moore, “that — 
this help to the poorer classes can be better given by individual 
effort than through the agency of the State ?” 

“ I think there is a great deal in that,” said Russell. “ For, 
of course, the State has duties towards its citizens even more im- 
portant than the duties of the citizens to one another. But then 
the State is an impersonal entity, and I don’t think it at all sees 
its way to performing its duties. That is, perhaps. the reason why 
Mr. Hume thinks it has no duties to perform. The whole ques- 
tion is a very interesting one to me. I was for several years in 
Parliament,—for I was elected when rather young,—and without 
being a strong party man, I supported many movements for the 
improvement of the condition of the poor. I believed that we 
should see great changes as the results. I have been much dis- 
appointed. Of course, I have not ceased to believe that their con- 
dition can be improved, but I think we must look for the means 
of improvement in new directions.” 

‘One must not be too impatient,’’ said Talbot. “ Results only 
show themselves slowly. And yet what wonderful achievements 
there have been in late years! Think of the Factory Acts; the 
movement for the Housing of the Poor; the People’s Palace in 
East, London; all the good work connected with ‘Toynbee Hall 
and the Oxford Missions in the East End. Surely these things 
point to a sinking of class interests for the good of the whole State. 
For myself, I will confess to be a little sceptical as to the leavening 
of the masses by cultivated and enthusiastic Oxford under- 
graduates. But yet it shows that all classes are honestly facing 
the problems of society, and are determined to second the efforts 
of the Legislature. And with one or two million new votes, both 
political parties will be forced more and more into social legisla- 
tion ;—witness all the speeches and resolutions at the late J,arty 
conventions, and John Morley’s speech at the Kighty Club, ‘which 
provoked so much criticism.” 

é“ I wonder we never think of these things in Ireland,” said 
Miss Moore. ‘“ Either we have none of these problems in this 
country, or else we entirely put them aside, for we never hear of 
them or read of them.” 





94 _ Lhe Irish Monthly. 


“ No one ever reads in Ireland,” said IIume; “it would be 
heneath our dignity to be indebted for our ideas to others. But is 
not your Land League taken up with such problems, Miss 
Moore ?” 

“Oh, yes, politicians and land leaguers doubtless have prob- 
lems; but I mean, we do not seem to have any like what you have 
in London, which interest everyone. I think we manage things 
better here.” 

“You aro quite right, Miss Moore,” said Russell. “ Apart 
from the land question, our social condition is much more simple, 
and I think more healthy, than England’s. You see there are not 
the huge masses of population in the towns—an agricultural com- 
munity is always much less complex than a commercial one.” © 

“I often think,” said Mrs. I'itzgerald, ** how much happier, as 
far as these things are concerned, people were in the middle ages. 
Then, of course, there were not these huge towns, and life was in 
the main rustic and agricultural.” 

é Still,” said Talbot, “ you could hardly put back the dial now. 
However much you might wish it, you could not turn Birmingham 
into ploughland and Sheffield into meadow.” 

“Thorold Rogers proves,” said Woulfe, “ by calculation of the 
rate of wages and the price of food, that in the fourteenth century 
the labourers were far better off than they are now.” 

“1 always have my doubts about these statistics, calculated so 
long afterwards,” said Talbot. “I don’t know much about the 
matter; but I have the same doubts about the happiness of the 
medizeval artificer that I have as to whether he intended all the 
symbolism we are taught to see in his stained glass windows and 
metal work.” 

“You are a sceptic, Mr. Talbot, I see,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. 

“For my part,” said Hume, who had seemed very impatient 
of the last remarks, “I am sure that a state of war, like that 
which lasted right through the fourteenth century, and indeed 
during the whole middle ages, could not be a good or natural 
thing for any class of the community. Commerce and agriculture 
were at a stand-still, and no one benefitted but the Free Companies 
and such robbers. For myself, [am grateful to civilization for 
few things so much as for the security we all now enjoy.” 

“I suppose all these things are true,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, 
who seemed distressed at Hume’s impetuosity; “ but I was reading 





A Modern Conversation. 95 


‘the other day such a charming book on Jack Cade’s Rebellion, by 
William Morris. His picture is very different from yours, Mr. 
Hume. And then there were the monasteries, which did so much 
good to the poor. They were a sad loss. It seems as though 
people realized in those times what Mr. Russell said just now about, 
both the State and the rich having duties to the poor. For the 
kings and the great nobles endowed and supported the monasteries, 
which acted, as it were, as trustees for the poor. In this way, the 
charity, however largely, or even improvidently, given by the rich, 
was not imprudently spent.” 

é I wish I could believe that,” muttered Hume to Talbot. 

é“ I almost think,” said Russell, “that we might learn two 
lessons from the middle ages. First, that everyone should recog- 
nise his duty towards his fellow-citizens, and try to fulfil it him- 
self, and not leave it over to the State to do; and, secondly, that 
charity will be best carried out by organizations of men who make 
it their vocation, and not by random individual effort, or even di- 
rectly by the State. Thank you, Mrs. Fitzgerald, 1 never thought 
of that before. But I see you are an enthusiast about the monas- 
teries. Does not your friend, Mr. Ruskin, hold your views too ?” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed he does. lle used to say he hoped to die a 
Franciscan friar at Assisi.”’ 

s I always think Ruskin is like a modern Plato,” said Russell, 
*+ preaching high ideals to a materialistic, sophistical world. Plato 
puts these things we are talking about, so well. Only, he had not 
the same difficult problems. Most of the labouring classes in his 
-day were slaves; that saved so much trouble. I was just reading 
the ‘ Republic’ when you came,” he added, turning to me. 

é Russell always puzzles me,” said Hume to Talbot,— a man 
of his sense quoting Plato, and a man of his age reading Greek ! 
But, seriously, Mr. Russell,” he continued, “ you don’t accept 
Ruskin’s Political Economy, do you? It is so puzzle-headed. He 
takes a science that can be made almost mathematical in its accu- 
racy, and twists it about with quite poetic disregard of facts and 
figures. And his fundamental assumptions and definitions are 
simply absurd.” 

é There is something in what you say,” said Russell, “ though 
not so much as you think, as Plato says. I quite admit that 
Ruskin may be a poor mathematician, and that, as a system, his 
political economy is weak. I look upon him as a prophet,—with- 


96 The Irish Monthly. 


out honour, as it seems, in his own country,—who, through various 
figures and allegories, as I think them, or as you may say, with 
all his exaggeration and hyperbole, still sees an ideal to which he 
tries to lead us. Surely it is a great thing i in these days of mate-. 
rialism to have such a man, whose face is not bent down to earth 
like the face of the brute beasts, but is raised up to heaven, to the 
region of pure ideals. You must not quarrel with his method, 
but rather consider the truths he tells us of, though only half 
seen : — 


‘ Mighty Prophet! Seer blest ! 
On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are tviling all our lives to find.’ "' 


“I am sure you are right, Mr. Russell,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald 
eagerly ; “that is the impression he always gives me when he 
talks. It is very curious that, in all his work in Art and such 
things, he seems to be, like Wordsworth, 


. ‘hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue.’ 


He really thinks his vocation is to speak to the world on these- 
social matters.” 

“ Yes,” said Russell, “it is ‘the still, sad music of humanity ” 
that troubles him. There he is different from Plato,—indeed all 
moderns are so different from the Greeks. They have not that 
perfectly natural, childlike delight in all things around them which 
the Greeks had. But we can’t go back in these things; the world 
has been growing older, and its childish joys no longer satisfy it. 
We feel our increased responsibilities, and I am glad to think that 
we try in some way to meet them.” 

As this conversation went on, I, notwithstanding that I was 
keenly interested in it, felt more and more weary from constant 
travelling for several days. Although I heard what was said, I 
could not keep my attention fixed, and many things I have since 
forgotten. About this time, too, someone began to play the piano,. 
and Nocturnes of Chopin and Sonatas of Beethoven alternately 
mingled with the voices of the speakers. 

“One thing I am sure of,” said Russell, “ that 





A Modern Conversation. 97 


anything to be done for the poor in future must be in the direction 
of showing them how they can help themselves, and not how we 
ean help them. As Hume would say,—and there is much truth 
in it,—the feudal system is a thing of the past. Men in future 
must work out their own destinies, and not look for protection or 
assistance to anything else,—lord, monastery, or even the State. 
The State will disappoint its votaries surely and bitterly. Buddha, 
if we may believe Sir Edwin Arnold, taught that misery was the 
fruit of sin, and that happiness sprang from virtue and benevo- 
lence. J am sure this is true; but we cannot now preach this 
gospel to the world; they would pay no attention to it. This. 
much, however, we may tell the workers,—that their happiness 
depends on themselves, that it is nothing external or adventitious, . 
but a result of self-improvement. Education will do much,—but . 
Ido not mean a purely technical education. Children are open 
to so many influences, and these should be used for good.. How 
much might be done for the very poorest children by a liberal 
education in the best sense of the word ;—one that should open 
the mind to the pleasures of thought and reading, literature and 
history, that should inculcate the teachings of religion, and de- 
velop the body by healthy exercise and the practice of useful 
trades. This is not impossible. The means might be found by 
the rich; and see the result on the poor! What resources they can 
now find in themselves! They will be intellectually on a level 
with their masters, and so independent in spirit that these will 
meet them on more equal terms. Everything points nowadays to. 
a system of hard work and short hours. The increased leisure 
may be put to various uses. If education such as I have described 
Las served its purpose, it will have accomplished two ends. It will 
make the home more attractive by the society of a cultivated wife ; 
and it will have taught the labourer to use his leisure to better 
purpose, and shown him what his sphere of life is. It must show 
him that happiness cannot be found in drink, and that it does not 
consist in selfish idleness.” . 

“ But do you trust to education to do all this ”” said Mrs. 
Fitzgerald. “ Philosophy herself has not yet taught us to bear 
the toothache patiently. Non in dialecticd complacuit Deo salrun 
facere pepulim suum.” 

é The education is not to be simply intellectual,” said Russell. 
[want to bring children, quite young and open-minded, under- 





, 


98 The Trish Monthly. 


the influence of ‘fair sights and sounds,’ as Plato says. Children 
are all so much alike, that I think if we could ward off all bad 
influences from them, the children of the poor might easily be 
turned into gentlemen—gentlemen in their ideas and feelings, I 
mean, as many of the peasants in the country parts of Ireland are 
alrealy. J have seen countrymen in Galway whose comversation 
is refined enough for a court.” 

‘But does “that make them happy : ?” said Miss Moore. “I 
expect for most of them ignorance is bliss; while I am sure there 
are some who would put “this education you are giving them to 
very bad use. It is a dangerous weapon to forge, ready for their 
hands. And as for their refinemeut, you may put a veneer of 
culture over them, but the only effect will be to destroy their 
simplicity, and make them awkward instead of interesting.” 

“ But do you really think,” said luussell, “that they were 
made to pass their lives in thoughtless ignorance? There are few 
things to me more terrible than to see an English labourer with 
the shape, and presumably the intellect of a man, leading the life 
of an animal. Man is too noble a creature to be degraded in that 
way. It is not the work that is degrading, but that when work 
is over he should have nothing left to do. At least he might 
know that he has a mind and soul. Everyone need not be a 
philosopher, but everyone is the better for thinking at times; and 
for any improvement in the labouring classes, Í am sure it is 
essential, When they begin to think, they can begin to improve 
themselves, and such an improvement will be lasting. You 
undersiand, of course, that I mean by education, not a cramming 
with knowledge, not much book-learning, but good moral and 
intellectual influences. I want the children to think well, and 
thought is to be drawn ont of them, not forced into them. All 
will depend on the character of the teachers, and the work of 
teaching would not be too humble for Socrates himself. I am so 
convinced that good influences will do everything with children, 
that I should like to take some of them, those of the criminal 
classes at any rate, bodily out of the slums of the cities, and to 
settle them in schools in country places, where they could never 
be brought under the evil influences of home. However, you will 
think this Utopian.” 

“I am afraid I do,” said Miss Moore. ‘ The ideas are 
charming, but the means to realize them seem very inadequate. 


A Modern Conversation. 99 


You are trying, it seems to me, to create a Platonic Republic by 
means of Education Acts !”’ 

“é Yes,” said Iussell, “the means are inadequate. But we 
must devise better ones, and [ am sure we shall succeed if we really 
try. All these difficulties of over-crowded cities and factories and 
slums art comparatively new difficulties of the present century. 
They are very much the result of steam and electricity and 
machinery, with the great wealth and luxury and class changes 
which these have produced. The truth is, that man has for the last 
century been turning all the hidden forees of nature to his own 
use. The effects he has produced are magical, but they have been 
unexpected. The forces have been too strong for him. They are 
like the escaped genie in the Arabian Nights, and have nearly over- 
powered him. But he will learn their secret by and by, and then 
he will be able to use them as he chooses, without tue danger of 
inflicting misery on his fellow man. DPerhaps by that time the 
antagonism between rich and poor may have diminished, and the 
benevolence which was the aim of Buddha, as it is of our religion, 
may again reign upon the earth. Pervhance some long time hence 
the rich may have been touched by Ruskin’s voices, still living 
when he has passed away, and may feel the terrible contrast 
between their luxury and the misery of the poor. It is a sanguine 
hope. But if peace is ever to return to the earth, it must be by 
such a reconciliation. Ruskin will not have preached in.vain. We 
van say of him in his own words: ‘ Go thou forth weeping, bearing 
precious seed until the time come and the Kingdom when Chiist’s 
gift of bread and bequest of peace shall be Unto This Last as unto 
thee, and when for Earth’s severed multitudes.of the wicked and 
the weary there shall be a holier reconciliation than that of the 
narrow home and calm economy where the wicked cease, not from 
trouble but from troubling, and the weary are at rest.’ ”’ 

After this I remember no more of what was said ; only that, 
Itussell’s thin pale face seemed brightened and glowing in the fire- 
light, while all the others, even in listening, seemed to have caught 
something of the prophet’s fire. 

M. W. L. 


100 The Irish Monthly. 


ITEMS ABOUT IRISH PERSONS. 
ae 
JAMES GILLANp, “Lovuau Ine,” J.C. DEapy, W. P. MuLCHINOCK, 
BARTHOLOMEw Dow Ino, ETC., Eric. 


1. We were about to place the following among our “ Anony- 
mities Unveiled,” for no anonymity is more securely veiled than 
the authorship of a poem which is attributed to the wrong man. 
In the shilling volume in which Gavan Duffy, more than forty 
years ago, condensed with supreme skill and taste the best of ‘ The 
Ballad Poetry of Ireland,” he gave Dr. Drennan as the author of 
‘Rory O’Moore, an Ulster Ballad,” just as he assigned to him 
“When Erin first rose,” and he prefixed to the poem which fol- 
lowed next, Samuel Ferguson’s “ Una Phelimy,” an argument 
drawn from the fact of “two Northern Protestants’ writing, as 
these did, about the Irish affairs of 1641. But this was a mis- 
take, which I find acknowledged in the forty-first edition. Yet 
he does not name the author of “ Rory O’Moore,” which we now 
claim authoritatively for Mr. James Gilland, of Dungannon. Many 
of his poems appear in Zhe Ulster Magazine in 1830; but they 
ere assigned to “the late James Gilland.” They originally ap- 
peared in Zhe Belfast Commercial Chronicle, between 1804 and 
1812, and were signed “7. X.” One of the best of these is “ The 
(Irave of Russell’—namely, Thomas Russell, who was executed 
for high treason at Downpatrick on the 21st October, 1808. When 
(rilland died in his early manhood, in 1811, many warm tributes 
were paid to the amiable character and bright promise of this 
young poet of ‘Tyrone, who had sung so well of those that placed 
their trust of old 


“ In God and Our Lady and Rory O’Moore.”’ 


2. We may add here, that another sweet Irish ballad, “ Lough 
Ine,” has been attributed to the Rev. Charles Davis, P.P., Balti- 
more. We have his authority for denying this. He attributes 
the lines to a Corkman named O’Brien; but on this also we e have 
heard doubts thrown. 





Items about Irish Persons. - 101 


3. Some account ought to be written of the Poet of Duhallow, 
J.C. Deady, of Kanturk, who wrote well in Zhe Nation in the 
Sixties. 


4. The death of Mr. John M‘Carthy occurred on Easter Sun- 
day, 1889. He was still in his prime, for he had not passed beyond 
his fortiefh year. Mr. M‘Carthy was born in Ireland and educated 
in Spain. He was a ripe scholar, a critic of excellent taste, and an 
editor of rare discrimination. He was for several years associated 
with the late Father Hecker in the editorship of the Cutholic World. 
He preserved the admirable traditions of the late John R. G. Has- 
sard, and kept that magazine up to the highest literary standard. 
Mr. M‘Carthy had a wide journalistic experience. He began his 
career in the United States on the staff of the Zribune ; he left the 
Catholic World to undertake an important mission to Cuba for the 
New York J/era/d; he contributed regularly during his residence in 
New York to the Catholic Quarterly, Catholic Review, and occasion- 
ally to The Ave Maria. His reputation rests chiefly on his 
essays, although one or two of his short stories are full of life and 
brilliancy. If Mr. M‘Carthy had enjoyed robust health, he would 
no doubt have written something more lasting than “leaders,” 
forgotten in a day; but pecuniary pressure forced him to do the 
work demanded at the moment, and his health could not support 
an extra pressure of daily work when the voracious demands of 
newspapers were satisfied. The list of Catholic writers in the 
United States grows smaller every year. Brownson, Girard, 
M‘Master, Hassard, Hickey, and now John M‘Carthy, have gone. 
Who can fill the void they have left ? 


5. In November, 1889, three Irish poets passed away. On the 
29th died Arthur Gerald Geoghegan, at 27 Addison Road, Ken- 
sington, London, in his 80th year. His best title to be remem- 
bered by is as author of “The Monks of Kilcrea.” A few of his 
pieces were contributed to our own pages, but his best work was in 
The Nation more than forty years ago. An account of his writings 
and of himself, as far as he wished to be known, will be found in 
our thirteenth volume, at page 325. For certain reasons he with- 
held then the date of his birth. Lis obituary reveals it—1809. 
The obituary of William Allingham erred, it seems, in placing his 
buth in the year 1828. It was four years earlier—1824. But 


102 . The Irish Monthly. 


ah! why was he not buried hike a Christian man in the Abbey of 
Assaroe, beside the winding shores of Erne? ‘The third name is 
Fanny Forrester, daughter of Mrs. Ellen Forrester. Both of 
them, living in England, have shown deep poetic feeling and 
warm Irish hearts. We shall be glad of an opportunity of intro- 
ducing them to our readers. 


6. The Nation of December 21, 1889, ended an interesting re- 
view of the “Irish Fairy Tales” of Mr. Edmund Leamy, M,P., 
by putting forward this boast for Waterford: ‘To Sexton the 
orator, to Dowling the novelist, to Downey, the successor of Lover, 
Waterford has added another son in Mr. Leamy, who will increase 
the store of our literature.” But Richard Dowling isa native of 
of Clonmel. Can Waterford claim his kinsman, Edmund Downey, 
alias “ }. M. Allen 7” 


7. The future biographer of Aubrey de Vere will find copious 
and valuable materials in the Autobiography of Sir Henry Taylor 
and in the Life of Sir William Rowan Hamilton. Another Irish- 
man who figures well in Sir Henry Taylor’s pages is Richard 
Flecknoe, branded in Dryden’s satire, yet capable of thus apostro- 
phising Silence :— 


“ Sacred silence, thou who art 
Floodgate of the deepest heart.” 


Byron was not an Irishman, though he showed an Irish spirit 
in one of his two fine speeches. However, we may here set it down 
that hardly anywhere can there be found a juster or more discri- 
minating appreciation of Lord Byron’s genius and its limitations 
than in Sir Henry Taylor’s introduction to his Phihp can Arte- 
celde—-which, by the way, Thomas Davis, in one of those letters 
first published in this Magazine, said was better worth studying 
than any play since Shakespeare. 


9. In the third part of “ Anonymities Unveiled,” in our 
Number for last November, page 610, Mr. D. Crilly, M.P., made 
enquiries about William Pembroke Mulchinock and Bartholomew 
Dowling after their removal to the United States. Kind corres- 
pondents have given us information about both. 

There are good reasons for celebrating our day of baptism 





Pigeonhole Paragraphs. . 105. 


rather than our birthday. The memorandum about William Mul-. 
chinock says only that he was baptized on the 5th of March, 1820; 
left Tralee for America in 1849; returned to Ireland about the year 
1855 ; and died in September, 1864. 


10. Another correspondent states that Bartholomew Dowling, 
author of “The Brigade at Fontenoy,” went from Limerick to: 
Boulogne in 1848, and was in Cork in the two following years, and 
for some years afterwards in Liverpool. But his last years were 
passed in California, and he died on the 20th of November, 1863, 
in St. Mary’s Hospital, San Francisco, attended by Irish Sisters of - 
Mercy, one of them a native of Limerick, like himself, the vener- 
able lady, Miss Reddan, aunt of the late Mother Francis Bridg- 
man, of Kinsale. 


PIGEONHOLE PARAGRAPHS. 


1. The following appeal comes from the Convent of Mercy,. 
Claremurris :— 


“ There is something in the sufferings of feeble old age, and in the 
the helplessness of little children, which appeals strongly to the 
tender sympathies of compassionate and gentle hearts, who would 
procure—for the former, a quiet rest at the close of their weary battle of 
life; for the latter, a freedom from care and sorrow, in which tu 
enjoy their brief period of unconsciousness of the struggle that is 
before them. To these tender hearts we now appeal on behalf of 
pitiful little creatures, with pinched and pallid faces, shivering, half- 
clothed limbs, bare feet, blue and blistered with cold, coming, many of 
them, miles to school, where they may spend some hoursfin a warm 
room, and receive each the piece of bread which we struggle hard to 
procure fur them. We appeal to them on behalf of aged poor, lying 
om mouldy straw, a few rags their blankets, a tub beside them*in 
their beds to catch the rain which drips through the rotting roof of 
thatch, their only alternative the workhouse, whose glaring white 
walls have, in too many cares, added blindness to their other sufferin:;s. 
To provide some means for tl.eir 1el:ef, we have an annual Bazaar, 


104 . The Irish Monthly. 


but the place is s» out-of-the-way, and the people for the most part so 
poor, that we have to depend mainly for its success on help from 
outside. All offerings of money, fancy work, or prizes for the Bazaar, 


-or gifts of cast off clothing, will be most gratefully received.” 
* * % 


2. Tennyson’s latest volume contains these lines to the snowdrop :— 


“ Many, miny welcomes, 
February fair-maid, 
Ever as of old time 
Solitury firstling, 
Coming in the cold time, 
Prophet of the gay time, 
Prophet of the May time, 
Prophet of the roses. 
Many, many welcomes, 
February fair-maid.’’ 


The same theme was sung by one who at the time was very nearly 
seventy years younger than the Laureate, under circumstances 
that will be found recounted minutely at page 650 of the eighth 
volume of this Magazine, in the fourteenth chapter of ‘‘ Flowers for 

Child’s Grave.” I am fond of contrasting the different treatment 
of the same subject in the hands of different persons—such as Thomas 
Moore, and Henry Kirke White “To my Mother ”—and, therefore, 
side by side with the octogenarian’s snowdrop, I place the snow- 
drop of an Irish child who had hardly begun her teens when she 
" wrote these lines :— 


‘¢ A sweet little thing is the snowdrop in Spring 
In its snowy white robe dressed— 
A pearly gem on an emerald stem, 
é With a dewdrop on its breast. 


“é Oh, a brave wee thing is the snowdrop in Spring, 
For the Winter's scarcely gone, 
When it lifts its head from its frozen bed 


And says, ‘‘ Bright Spring, come on! ”’ 


‘+ And a welcome wee thing is the snowdrop in Spring, 
For it heralds the summer sun. 
At the first warm ray it melts away, . 
And the snowdrop’s task is done.’’ 
* * % 

3. We lately referred to Mr. Wilfrid Blunt’s newest volume, with 
its-brilliant but lax theory and practice of sonnet-writing. It seems 
very desirable to give the counter-view of a weighty authority in 
The Weekly Register, of November 23, 1889 :— 





Pigeonhole Paragraphs. 105 


“ Mr. Blunt, as has been seen, writes the sonnet in a Shakesperian or quasi- 
Shakesperian form, and has the easy advantage of that great name over those who 
hold the Petrarchan formula to be not only the most beautiful, but the most fitted 
to express with dignity the intellectual act that is the cause of a spnnet. But the 
name, though it is the greatest in literature, is not the greatest in lyrical poetry,- 
and ita authority is quite measurable with that of others. Moreover, the fact that 
Shakespeare wrote strongly, or exquisitely, or thoughtfully in a certain form does 
not deny the fact that a better form existed, neglected in his time. The final 
couplet with its point and epigram, suited his matter admirably, as some other 
form, even lesa grave, might have suited it. None the less is the separateness of 
of the final couplet alien from the organic unity of the highest form of the sonnet, 
and none the loss is the snapping epigram of the final couplet alien from the 
meditativeneas of a high sonnet’s thought and from the composure of ite utter- 
ance. As regards the effect to the ear, the highest beauty of the sextet is to 
rise in sound and to accelerate in movement towards the close, and to ‘end in a line 
er a half line of peace ; and this the couplet makes impossible.”’ 


* * * 


4. In Kottabos of Michaelmas Term, 1889, Mr. John P. Gannon 
consecrates the following sonnet to the memory of Father Damien, 
who has inspired more than one of our own poets :— 


é Strong brother of the weak, whose feet have trod 
In thy dear Master’s footsteps silently, 
Braving the foe of men, pale leprosy, 

By whom struck down, thou passest unto God. 
Thy dust is laid beneath an island’s sod, 
Far from both worlds, on lone Pacific’s breast ; 
But thy pure fame is wafted east and west, 
Where cities hum or silent forests nod. 


é We little men with fevered fancies glow, 
Our hearts are faint with weight of selfish care ; 
We pine for praise, and reap not where we sow ; 
We seek and fail to find joy anywhere. 
Thou in a world of puppets still dost show 
What, under God, a man may do and dare. 


* * * 


5. Mr. T. P. O’Connor’s Parnell Movement will be acknowledged, 
even by thosd who have least sympathy for its theme or its spirit, to 
be a vigorous and picturesque contribution to its history of contem- 
porary politics. But the reason why the present writer refers to this 
work is altogether apart from politics and literature. It is simply to 
emphasise the tribute paid incidentally to the practice ef total absti- 
nence as & qualification for hard work. At page 259 of the Popular 
Edition of “The Parnell Movement,” Mr. O'Connor says, of Mr. 

Vou. xvi. No. 200. 57 


Ah 





106 The Irwh Monthly. 


Timothy Harrington "M.P. :—“ Mr Harrington is a born organizer. 
He has much of the iron spirit of the American ‘ boss,’ dashed with 
the kindliness of a good-humoured Irishman. His frame, hardy, 
firm-set, is capable of any amount of physical or mental effort. 
Throughout his whole life he has never once tasted stimulant, and thts 
perhaps accounts to some extent for his splendid health.” 


* * * 


6. As late as this January, 1890, several years after her death, I 
notice in Zhe Argosy an item called simply “ Sonnet, by Julia 
Kavanagh.” A Catholic Irishwoman, living chiefly abroad, Miss 
Kavanagh, as far as I am aware, showed her Catholic faith only 
indirectly by the purity and wholesomeness of her fictions, and her 
nationality not at all. But this last relic of hers, the only piece of 
verse that I have seen from her pen, turns out to be a pious picture of 
the Annunciation, and for her the Blessed Virgin is not merely “a 
highly favoured one,” but “full of grace ” :— 


‘¢ Along the morning sky the Angel came, 
And through the window like a snnbeam passed, 
Silent and bright. A startled look she cast 

Upon his long white wings and brow of flame. 

‘ Hail, full of grace!’ said he. The blessed name, 
Like long-expected music come at last, 

By earth was heard. But when with virgin shame 
Pure Mary shrank beneath the heavens vast, 
All through the sad, long-suffering world there ran 

A throb of fear and awe lest this poor maid 
The great boon should deny to sinful man. 

‘ Behold the handmaid of the Lord ! ’ she said. 
Then gladness like a belt the earth did span : 

The Angel smiled and back to heaven fled.” 


This is not as poetical as Rossetti’s sonnet on the same subject, 
but it is more reverent and more full of faith. After all, Canova did 
not greatly exaggerate when he said: “There is no real sublimity 
outside the Christian Faith ; no real beauty without the Madonna.” 





107 


ON READING AUBREY DE VERE’S “LEGENDS OF 
ST. PATRICK.” 


I 


RIN stood weeping by the wild seashore, 
Weeping because her bards were passed away, 
Their harps all silent. Through long years no ray 
Of light had pierced the cloud of grief she wore 
Wrapped as a garment round her. To deplore 
Deep cause she had beside her vanished day 
Of song and music; yet for one sweet lay 
She yearned : the waves alone replied ‘‘ Vo more /” 
Lo! one arose, well skilled, and took that part 
For ber dear sake. Her glory brief, her woes, 
But most her spiritual life he shows 
In sweet deep-flowing song. Drawn by his art, 
As glides his voice up through her vanished years, 
Hope with soft wings wipes from her eyes their tears. 


II. 


I read, and, as I read, upon my ear 

Arose a swell of music. Through the whole 

Sounded a deep full chord which drew my soul 

Past earth unto her God. Thy joy, thy fear, 

Thy hope for future years, O Ireland! here 

Are sung to that dear harp which lay so long 

In silence. This thy son his gift of song 

Has poured around thy shores. Oh! ever dear 

Shall be his name to those whom thou dost call 

In truth thy sons and daughters. Lo! a smile 

Beams from thine eyes e’en as the tear-drops fall. 

Joy in thy sorrow that thou hast the while 

A Poet still, whose voice from out the past 

Calls forth thy trust in God, and bids thee hold it fast. 
M. F. M. 


108 The Irish Monthly. 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. ‘Salvage from the Wreck,” by the Rev. Peter Gallwey, 8.7. 
(London ! Burns and Oates), is a work of remarkable originality and 
attractiveness, and at the same time full of edification and instruction. 
Perhaps the title is not quite happy, and certainly it stands greatly in 
need of the explanation furnished by the sub-title: ‘‘ A Few Memories 
of Friends Departed, preserved in Funeral Discourses.” It is well known 
that Father Gallwey is an Irishman whose work has lain in England, 
and chiefly in London, W. When anyone very eminent in Christian 
virtue and in devotedness to the Catholic Faith has been called to his or 
her reward, he has been very often invited to “ point the moral” of 
the life thus Lrought to a close. Lady Georgiana Fullerton, before 
her turn came to be herself spoken of in this way, expressed an 
earnest desire that Father Gallwey would publish a selection of these 
very unconventional and very unfrenchy oraisons funébres, He has at 
last done so, chiefly through the persuasion of Father Henry Coleridge, 
S.J., of whom he says most justly, that he may well be put alongside 
the late Father Faber of the Oratory as pre-eminent in the divine work. 
of promoting the Apostleship of Good Books. Father Gallwey may 
not be quite pleased with us for thinking, that the pages that he has 
found it necessary to add in putting the discourses together are the 
most interesting and valuable portion of the volume, which contains 
nothing more edifying than the last twenty pages of the introduction. 
Will the author draw the proper conclusion from this undoubted fact, 
and make up his mind to do himself what he urges earnestly on others ? 
Let him set down on paper and put into print, by instalments, as many 
personal sketches as possible, such as form the substance of ‘‘ Salvage 
from the Wreck.” As some readers will share our disappvintment at 
being cut down to initials in that part of the introduction to which we 
have just referred, we hasten to share with them also a discovery that 
we have made. In a subsequent part of the work we find that 
‘““M. C.,” to whom we owe the exquisitely devotional booklet, “ An 
Hour before the Blessed Sacrament,” was Miss Mary Cuninghame, 
and her frievd was Blanche Lady Fitzgerald, who died an Irish 
Sister of Charity. Mr Gladstone has just said in The Speaker: ‘‘ I am 
disposed to think that ladies ought not to be named in print without 
their previous consent.” This does not apply in the present case. The 
subjects of these sketches and funeral words are chiefly English men 


Notes on New Books. ~ +109 


and women who have died within the last score of years: Sir Charles 
Tempest, Charles Langdale, Charles Weld, Sir Edward Vavasour, 
«tc. Lady Georgiana Fullerton, of course, finds a place ; and with her 
the Marchioness of Lothian, Lady Herries, Mrs Devas, and a Franciscan 
‘un, Mother Magdalen. There are about twenty in all, with eighteen 
portraits. The volume is produced with great taste, in a type pleasant 
to read ; and it cannot fail to be welcomed as a permanent addition to 
var Catholic literature. We hope it will be properly introduced’ to 
American readers also. 


2. Mr Aubrey de Vere will, we trust, forgive us if we promote the 
interests of a very good book by quoting his opinivun of it as expressed 
ina private note. ‘he book is Coventry Patmore’s recently published 
essays, ‘‘ Principle in Art, ete,” in which Zhe Spectator says ‘‘ there is 
a pithy wisdom that reminds us of Bacon, and there is, tov, in large 
measure, a gitt which Bacon lacked—spiritual insight ;” while Zhe 
Saturday Review says that ‘‘ Mr Patmore excels in short and pithy 
sayings, apophthegms which take fancy captive and linger in the 
memory.” Mr de Vere writes: ‘‘I have been reading with great 
admiration Coventry Patmore’s new work. It seems to me decidedly 
the best work we have seen for many years on the philosophy of 
poetry. It is full of profound insight and penetration, happily mingled 
with great goud sense. Its style is not less remarkable. Besides all 
that it expresses, it is full of passages of fine suggestion, and shows how 
instructive short essays may be where condensation is furced upon the 
author. Everywhere it rests upon principles deep and true, not on 
rhetoric ; and it goes direct into the heart of the subject treated. Its 
style too is admirable—a happy union of long and short sentences, the 
long ones being always steered safely along their winding course, and 
the meaning always advancing in volume as the seutence makes 
progress. It abounds also in felicitous and therefore memorable ex- 
pressions, and singularly unites subtlety of thought witl clearness. It 
is a work capable of being of the very highest use to our young Irish 
poets and poetesses, in whom I am always much interested. It might 
prevent the misapplication of much ability and the wise development 
of powers otherwise fated to run to waste.” Mr de Vere goes on to 
express a wish that this work should be adequately noticed in our 
Mayazine. We have almust done so already by venturing to print, 
without any permission, what Mr de Vere himself wrote without the 
slightest idea of publication. 


3. Messrs Gay, Brothers, of New York, have brought out a vast 
collection of ‘‘ The Poetry and Song of Ireland ” in a very ornamental 
volume, with a large uumber of portraits, and short biographical 


110 The Irish Monthly. 


sketches of nearly all the poets represented. It is not long since we 
recommended to our readers Mr Daniel Connolly’s ‘* Household 
Vibrary of Irish Poets” ; and here comes to us from the same New 
York another large tome devoted to the same subject. They differ 
widely, however, in their contents ; and we shall soon take occasion to 
compare the points in which one has the advantage over the other. 
‘The present work is the second edition, greatly enlarged, of a collec- 
tión edited by John Boyle O'Reilly. We shall return to it again. 


4. Another very large and handsome volume is “ The Story of the 
Trish in Boston,” edited and compiled by Mr James Bernard Cullen, 
and published in luxurious style by the firm of which Mr Cullen is the 
head. Every incident and every person linking together Boston and 
the Irish race has been sought out with enthusiastic diligence ; and 
sketches and portraits are given of all the distinguished Irishmen and. 
Irish women connected with Boston. It is an interesting, and, in many 
respects, an amazing book. We intend, with all due acknowledgment, 
to draw on its abundant stores for biographical particulars about a 
great many of our Irish race. 


5. To attempt a review of “The Review of Reviews” would be to 
carry reviewing too far; but we feel bound to offer a welcome to No. 1, 
both for its own sake, and for the promise it holds forth for the future 
of this marvellous sixpenceworth. One item of the first number, in 
which it has the advantage over its successors, is the reproduction in 
fac simile of autograph letters of a great many of the most distinguished 
men of the day. The most talked-about book just at present is Lady 
G. Fullerton’s first novel Ellen Middleton ; the most talked-about man 
is Mr Stanley. This book and this career are condensed by Mr Stead 
with admirable skill, so as to satisfy the curiosity of most people ; and 
these are only two of the chief dishes in a very generous and various 
menu. A yearly volume of Zhe Review of Reviews, well indexed, will 
be a treasure-house of contemporary literature and of information of 
all kinds. 


6. Miss Mary Catherine Crowley is rapidly acquiring a high repu- 
tation as a writer of stories for children. In an interesting sketch of 
her given in a work which we have just commended to our readers, 
‘The Irish in Boston’”—a sketch marked by initials which we are 
glad to identify as those of Miss Katherine Conway, according to our 
usual policy of unveiling anonymities—we find that Miss Crowley’s 
literary activity is very great and very various; but the department 
in which she is most favourably known is that of children’s stories. 
We were able last year to give a cordial welcome to her “Merry 





Notes on New Books. 111 


Hearts and True;” and now another too bright-covered book contains 
** Happy-Go-Lucky, and Other Stories’? (New York: D. & J. Sadlier 
and Co.). Among the Press notices at the end, we notice this Maga- 
zine quoted as saying of the previous volume: “There are just half 
a dozen stories in this handsome quarto, with its big type, and cover 
of red and gold.” This holds good precisely of Miss Crowley’s new 
book, all except the colour of the binding of the particular copy that 
hes before us. The style is as bright as the cover, and the incidents 
as numerous as the pages. We hope this good book will make its 
way into a great many Irish libraries. 


7. Mr T. J. Livesey has translated very well from the German, 
‘Flowers from the Catholic Kindergarten, or Stories of the Child- 
hood of the Saints” by Father Hattler, 8.J. (London : Burns & Oates). 
Some thirty chapters of holy anecdotes, not only about the young 
saints who never grew old, but also about the early days of old saints 
who once were young. The book is brightened with many pictures ; 
but it needed no such help to attract youthful eyes and to move 
youthful hearts. 


8. “The Light of Reason,” by Sebastian Wynell Mayow (London : 
Kegan, Paul, Trench & Co.), is a solid and orthodox treatise on the 
fundamental truths of the existence of God and the divine revelation. 
In this age, in England and in the United States, such dissertations 
must be translated out of the language of theology. An examination 
of such a treatise would be out of place in our pages; but we can 
guarantee the excellent spirit in which it is written, and express our 
belief that it will be of use in giving peace to many a doubting soul. 


9. A very different book comes next on our list: ‘‘ Miss Peggy 
O’Dillon, or, the Irish Critic, by Viola Walda (Dublin: M. H. Gill 
and Son). It is a lively attack on the weaknesses especially of the 
writers fellow-countrywomen. We have not been very much im- 
pressed by Miss Walda’s reflections,—such of them as we have read 
in our book-tasting capacity. 


10. ““Songs in a Minor Key: a Small Volume of Verse.” By 
William C. Hall (Dublin: Sealy, Bryers & Walker). This is one of 
the most tasteful pieces of Dublin typography that we have ever seen. 
There is acertain refinement in the poet’s choice of themes, and even 
in his diction ; but we cannot find anything to praise very warmly in 
the poems themselves. 


11. ‘The Pacific Coast Catholic Almanac” (San Francisco : Diepen- 


112 The Irish Monthly. 


. brock and Co.) is excellent. The literary matter is varied and interest- 
ing; and the illustrations remarkably well done, especially the 
portraits. In some respects it rivals the admirable “ Catholic Family 
Annual” (New York: Catholic Publication Society), which is far the 
best thing of the kind in the English language. The handsome and 
valuable volume brought out in London by the Catholic Truth Society 
bears almost the same name, but it is a work of a different kind. It, 
too, is excellent in its way, and does great credit to Mr James Britten 
and all others concerned in it. 


12. We can only call attention to the previous collection of “ The 
' Prose Writings of Thomas Davis, edited, with an Introduction, by T. 
W. Rolleston,’’ which forms a recent volume of the wonderful Shilling 
Oamelot Series (London: Walter Scott). This book must sell by the 
thousand. It is produced admirably. The most striking thing in the 
whole collection seems to be the very first—the Address to the Dublin 
Historical Society in 1840. This book will increase the welcome for 
é“ The Life and Letters of Thomas Davis,” by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, 
which is now passing through the press. 


13. The Catholic Truth Society has added to its long list of 
publications three more of Father Gerard’s thoroughly delightful 
papers on National History in connection with Science and Faith. It 
has also issued penny selections from the famous Fioretti of St. 
Francis. With that beloved name we may link “ The Franciscan 
Treasury,” (Dublin: James Duffy and Son). It is a very beautiful 
collection of prayers and devotions edited by Father Jarlath Prendergast, 


O.8.F. 


14. Messrs. M. H. Gill and Son have issued a shilling edition of 
é The Poet’s Purgatory, and other Poems” by Father H. I. D. Ryder, 
of the Oratory. ' It is worth a great many of the volumes of ‘‘ Recent 
Verse” criticised occasionally in The Atheneum and The Academy, 


15. At the last moment we receive two important Addresses on the 
Ivish University Question, by the Most Reverend Dr. Walsh, Arch- 
bishop of Dublin, reprinted (and remarkably well printed) in a 
y wmphlet of a hundred pages. Messrs. M. H. Gill and Son are the 
publishers. 


MARCH, 1890: 
gy 


A STRIKING CONTRAST. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE MISER OF KINGSOOURT,” ‘“‘ THE STRANGE ADVENTURES 
OF LITTLE SNOWDROP,’’ ETO. 





CHAPTER I. 


SYLVIA’S HOME. ¢@ 


HE evening sun was setting; the wide prairies, with their herds 
of cattle, the paddocks, and the peaks of the distant mountains, 
were bathed in its gold-red light. 

In the verandah of a small house in the Australian Bush sat a 
young man of five or six-and-twenty. He was tall and strongly built. 
His shoulders were broad ; his limbs long and muscular. He was not 
handsome; but he was a gentleman; and there was something very 
attractive in the earnest glance of his dark eyes, and the kindly 
expression of his sunburnt face. 

At his knee, her rosy mouth wreathed with happy smiles, her little 
fat hands clasping his, stood a baby-girl with fair curling hair, and 
skin of lily whiteness. The young man looked at her with much 
affection, and pressed his lips to her chubby cheeks. 

“My darling!” he said, “it is nearly time for my sweet Sylvia 
to go to bed.” 

The child pulled at his watch-chain, and stamped her little foot. 

é“ No, no!” she cried. 

**'Yes, yes. Itis late. The calves and chickens are all in bed, 
and Sylvia must go, too.” 

But baby frowned. 

é“ No, no; fo’, fo’,” she said imploringly. ‘Me want fo’, fo.” 

“Then off you go,” he answered, laughing. ‘‘Go and gather 
some flowers if you like. I am too lazy to stir. Run along and bring 
some to papa.” 

Vox. xvi. No. 201. 58 


114 . The Irish Monthly. 


Sylvia dropped the chain, and with a crow of delight toddled to the 
other side of the verandah, where the morning glories twined their 
graceful stems round the battered posts. Raising herself on tip-toe, 
she tried to reach the pretty blossoms. But they grew too high; and 
as she stretched above her head, she lost her balance, and rolled over 
on the floor. She uttered a loud cry, and big tears hopped down her 
cheeks, 

“ Poor little mite, you have indeed fallen low,” cried her father, 
rushing forward and catching her in his arms, ‘‘ But you must be 
plucky, dear, and not cry so easily. See, papa will give you the 
flowers. So dry your eyes, my pet.” 

He gathered a few glories, and placed them in her hands. 

‘‘ Papa dea, papa dea, oh, oo dea,” whispered Sylvia softly; and 
nestling up to him, she kissed and patted his face. He pressed her 
lovingly to his breast, and warmly returned her caress. 

é“ My little girl must be brave. It is not good to cry so easily.” 

The child smiled through her tears. 

“ Me dood now, wery dood.” 

é That is right. And now my pet really must go to bed.” Anne! ”’ 

A door opened, and a neat-looking young woman entered the 
verandah. 

‘Yes, sir. Shall I take Miss Sylvia?” she asked. “It is past her 
usual bed-time.” 

“Yes, take her, please. She is tired and sleepy. And when she 
is in bed, Anne, I should like to speak to you. I have something 
important to ask you.” 

é“ Very well, sir. Come, Miss Sylvia.” 

The child sprang into her arms, laughing and crowing with delight. 

‘“ Night, night, papa,” she cried, shaking her little hand. “ Night, 
night.” 

Her father kissed her again. ‘‘ Good night, darling; and go to 
sleep quickly, for I want nurse.” 

“TI be back very soon, sir,” replied Anne. ‘‘She’s never long 
about going to sleep.” 

As the baby disappeared, and the last sound of her merry prattle 
died away, the young man sighed heavily, and flung himself down 
upon a chair. | 

‘Poor darling! It will be hard to part with her. She grows 
more engaging, more winning, every day. It will be a sad trial to 
send her away, But it must be done—it must be done.” 

He sighed again. His head sank upon his breast, and he became 
lost in thought. 

George Atherstone was the only son of an English baronet, and 





A Striking Contrast. 115 


heir to a fine old place, and a considerable amount of property in Lan- 
cashire. But, unfortunately, the Atherstones had been fast-living, 
extravagant people, and when George’s father succeeded to the title 
and estates, he found the latter heavily mortgaged, and yielding an 
income upon which it was impossible to livein anything like the style 
befitting his rank. For himself, he was not. ambitious; but he was 
anxious that his son should one day pay off all debts, and take his 
place amongst the well-to-do. By going into trade he believed he 
might accomplish this, and when George left college he told him his 
plans, and implored him to enter a merchant’s office. But the young 
man would not listen to his prayers. He was not anxious to make 
money. He could not bear the drudgery of the city. His tastes did 
not lie that way. He loved a free, roving life, and longed to see the 
world. His father was bitterly disappointed, and begged him to 
consider the matter well. But George was firm. So, finding him bent 
on following his own will, Sir Eustace gave him what money he could 
spare, and allowed him to go where he would. The sum was not 
large, but with it the young man was well pleased, and certain of 
turning it to good account in the distant land to which he was going. 
So he thanked his father warmly, said good-bye to his mother and 
friends, and sailed for Australia. - ' 

On board ship he met Sylvia Kenyon, daughter of an Australian 
settler. She was just eighteen, with pale gold hair, a delicate com- 
plexion, and soft, appealing blue eyes. She was an interesting 
companion, a sympathetic friend; and in a few days George 
Atherstone grew to love her very dearly. Sylvia soon returned his 
affection with all the ardour of her fresh young nature; and they 
became engaged. The marriage was solemnized some six weeks later 
at Melbourne, and the happy couple started at once for the Bush. 

The home to which George Atherstone carried his bride was pretty 
enough in its way, but lonely, and isolated from other habitations. 
The house was old, and had been patched and repaired on all sides. 
The roof was covered with sheets of bark, held down by large wooden 
girders. A huge vine spread its leafy branches over the walls, tenderly 
covering their nakedness and defects. A wide verandah ran along 
the whole front of the dwelling, and was thickly grown with gorgeous 
creepers. Below this was a flower garden, its beds bright with many 
flowers. A row of broad-leaved tropical plants surrounded the little 
enclosure, where some of the trees had been felled and stumped, whilst 
others had been spared for shade and effect. Then, beyond, as far as 
eye could see, were vast prairies, with herds of cattle grazing quietly, 
or lying camped under the trees, and a beautiful chain of blue-peaked. 
mountains stretching away in the distance. 


A 


116 The Irish Monthly. 


Within the house there was but a small supply of anything like 
luxury. The wails were covered with illustrations from pictorial 
papers. The furniture was scanty, and of the poorest description. 
But when Sylvia hung up the white mosquito curtains, and spread 
about the many dainty objects she had brought with her from 
England; when she filled her bowls with flowers, and the corners of 
her rooms with plants and ferna, the place improved rapidly, and very 
soon assumed a comfortable and homely aspect. 

The first year of their married life passed quickly by. And ‘in 
spite of many privations, and enforced isolation from their friends, 
the young people were extremely happy. George was hard-working 
and industrious. Sylvia had plenty of occupation, delighted in her 
house, and felt proud of her big, kind husband. The free country life 
suited them both; they cared nothing for society, and had little to 
trouble or annoy them. 

But all too soon there came a change. Sylvia grew delicate. She 
longed for a female friend ; and as George was obliged to leave her by 
herself for hours together, while he looked after his sheep, or rode 
over his farm, she became lonely and discontented. 

' Then young Atherstone and a neighbouring selecter quarrelled 
about a piece of land that the latter wished to seize and make his 
own. George was furious ; but as he had no money to buy 
the field, he was obliged to let it go. This incident caused 
much annoyance and irritation, and peace seemed banished from 
the homestead. Then baby Sylvia was born ; and for a time 
Atherstone forgot all outside worries in the joy of possessing 
his little daughter. The happy mother was no longer lonely; 
and soon grew strong again. The quarrelsome selecter became 
friendly, and offered to give back the land at a moderate price. This 
pleased George, and he wrote home for money. The man promised to 
wait ; and everything looked bright once more, when suddenly the 
young wife caught a fever, and after a short illness expired in her 
husband’s arms. George was wild with grief, and for some time could 
not bear to look upon his child. But by degrees his heart warmed to 
the little creature ; and he soon came to love her with tenderness and 
devotion. 

George Atherstone had, as we know, gone:to Australia much 
against his father’s will; and every mail brought letters imploring 
him to return. But the young man was obstinate. The life in the 
Bush suited him best. He was happy, so was his wife. He would 
not go back to England. But after Sylvia’s death everything was 
changed. The little house felt lonely. His home was not what it had 
been ; and he was strongly tempted to leave it all, and set sail for 





A Striking Contrast. 117 


Europe. The temptation, however, did not last long. The.idea of 
settling down to a humdrum life in London or Lancashire, was most 
distasteful to him ; and he soon dismissed it from his mind. He would 
take change of air and scene out in Australia. So there and then he 
resolved to leave his present abode, and travel farther into the country. 

Then came anuther letter from his father. 

éI am growing old, George,” he wrote. “My wife, my children, 
are all dead—but you. Come home, my son—come home. I am rich 
now. My money troubles are atan end. I told you in my last letter 
that there was question of running a railway through the estate, at 
the bottom of the home-park. This has been done, and the com- 
pensation given by the company is so large that I have been able to 
pay off all debts and mortgages. Then the railway coming so close 
has enhanced the value of my property. I have built new houses, 
for which I receive high rents promptly paid. So, my son, I wish you 
to come home. You may now live as you please—go where you 
choose. Society, the best London can supply, will receive you with 
open arms, and your father will welcome you gladly. For wealth has 
not brought the happiness I expected. All my dear ones are gone. 
I long for something, some child of my own to love. And yet from 
what you have written me so often, I fear even this will not tempt you 
from your life of freedom. Therefore, I pray you—I implore—if you 
cannot, will not come youself, send me your child. The Australian 
Bush is not a fitting place for a tender girl, the daughter of a family 
like ours. Soif you cannot yet bear the trammels of civilization, if 
you still prefer a roving: existence to your home, send little Sylvia to 
comfort and console me.’ 

When he first read this, George was indignant. “ Part with my 
child! No, never—that I could not do. Let her grow up without 
knowing me—without loving me—I could not—I could not. And to 
go home is impossible. I could not endure life in England. 

‘Society! Bah! it would stifle me. I shall stayasIam. The 
freedom here suits me to perfection. For many years yet Europe 
shall not see me, or Sylvia.” 

But when he thought of his lonely father, of his anxiety to have 
some one to love and comfort him in his old age; when he considered 
the difficulties of his own position, the many dangers he might 
encounter in the wilder regions of the Bush, he resolved to grant the 
latter part of the old man’s request, and send his daughter home. 

é 1 cannot do better after all,” he reflected. ‘ My darling will be 
safe, well taken care of. Her presence will make up for my absence ; 
her affection atone for my neglect. Next year, perhaps, if all goes 
well, I may take a run over to London to see her.” 


~ 


118 The Irish. Monthly. 


Accordingly, a letter was written and despatched to Sir Eustace- | 
Atherstone, announcing his grand-daughter’s speedy arrival. 

But after this things went on as before. George put off the evil 
hour, and lingered on amongst the flowers, his little one at his knee. 
The thought of parting with her was anguish, and he kept it away 
from him as long as possible. 

At last he heard of an exploring party going far into the country, 
and he grew feverishly anxious to join it. Before he could do so, 
however, it was necessary to place his child in safg keeping. He could 
not take her with him, nor could he leave her alone in the Bush. He 
devided, therefore, to send her without further delay to England. 
But who was to take her? He had so few friends. He knew of no 
one going to Europe. What was to be done? Here was a dilemma 
that had not occurred to him before. And as poor little Sylvia fell in 
trying to reach the morning glories, he suddenly realized what a help- 
less atom she was. 

“Tf Anne would go with her, all would be well,” he said, as he- 
gazed out over the thick short couch grass, green with summer thunder 
storms. “I have watched her well, as she sat there, hour after hour, 
with my darling in her lap, or played with her round the verandah, 
and she has always seemed kind, watchful and trustworthy. My dear 
wife loved her. Sylvia adores her. I feel I might trust her; if only 
she would go. But she may have friends that will refuse to part with 
her. She may”’ 

“You wished to speak to me, sir. Baby is asleep, so I came at once.” 

George looked up at the speaker, and gravely noted every point of 
her form and face. The survey pleased him. She was exactly what 
he thought: strong and well-built, neither too old nor too young. 
She had a fresh, wholesome complexion, a kindly smile, and an affec- 
tionate motherly expression. ‘‘She will do, I think; and, if she will 
only consent to go, I may safely trust my darling to her care,” flashed 
quickly through his mind as he bade the woman sit down. 

“ Anne,” he said gently, ‘‘ you are very fond of little Sylvia, I 
believe ? ” 

Anne’s colour deepened ; her eyes grew bright. 

‘Fond of her? I love her as if she was my own, Mr. Atherstone. 
I loved her sweet mother, and on her death-bed she gave her to me, 
saying: ‘Anne, you have been a faithful servant, be true to my child;. 
never leave her—take care of her and love her.’ I vowed to do it, 
and do it I will as long as I live.” 

George looked at her gratefully. ‘‘Thank you. You are a good 
woman, and—and—your words, your manner, encourage me to ask 
you a favour.” 











A Striking Contrast. 119 


“ A favour! Oh, sir, it is granted before you ask it. There is 
nothing I would not do for you and Miss Sylvia.”’ 

é Then will you be ready to undertake a long journey to please 
me? Will you leave your friends in Australia and go to England by 
the next steamer from Melbourne ? ”” 

Anne startled and turned pale. 

“To England! Oh, Mr. Atherstone, that is a long, long way; 
and what would my little pet do without me?” 

‘I do not mean you to go alone. Sylvia shall go with you.” 

‘Sylvia go with me! Would you—oh, sir, would you part with 
your child?” 

“ Yes, Anne, I must. But only for a time. My father is lonely, 
and implores me to send her to him. Iam going away from here— 
far up country—and I cannot take Baby with me. So 1 have resolved 
to send her home. Will you go with her? If you do, your wages 
shall be doubled. I will bind my father to keep you with my child 
always. No matter what turns up, he must not part with you or 
dismiss you from his service. Will these conditions suit you? Will 
you take charge of Baby Sylvia ?”’ 

Anne turned her head aside. Tears gathered in her eyes, and her 
lips trembled with emotion. 

“ My dear master,” she stammered presently, “you are too good. 
Even if I did not love the child as dearly as I do, I would feel bound 
to accept your generons offer, for I have a sick mother dependent on 
me for her entire support, and I am anxious to earn all the money I 
eun.”’ . 

é“ Then you will take my child to England ?”’ 

‘‘Indeed, I will, When and how you please. And believe me, 
sir, my whole life and strength will be devoted to her, not because of 
your generosity, but because I love her, the treasure confided to me 
by my dying mistress.” 

George grasped her hand, and shook it warmly. 

“Thank you, Anne—thank you. You are, indeed, a good and 
faithful servant.” 

“I trust I am, sir,” she said earnestly. ‘‘And if ever I seem to 
fail in my duty to you or your child, it will not be my fault. I shall 
never do so of my own free will.” 

“I believe you. I have full confidence in you.” 

e Thank you, sir.” 

And Anne courtseyed and withdrew. 


120 The Irish Monthly. 


CHAPTER I. 
SYLVIA’S ESCORT. 


On a hot summer day, about a week later, George Atherstone 
strolled leisurely down Burke street. He, Baby Sylvia, and Anne the 
faithful nurse, had arrived in Melbourne the evening before. 

Atherstone had not visited the metropolis of Victoria since the 
happy day of his marriage ; and he felt sad and lonely as he wended 
his way through the busy streets, and recognised the various points of 
interest that he had seen for the first time in company with his 
beloved Sylvia. He gazed at the imposing piles of masonry, churches, 
institutes and warehouses, and wondered at the groups of humble 
little shops, devoted to the sale of fruit, toys and sugar-plums, that 
intervene, and are all that remain of the early shanty days of 
Melbourne. He admired the lofty dome of Messrs. Goldsborough 
and Co.’s wool palace, and then thought joyfully that very soon he 
should leave all this glare and magnificence, this push and bustle, to 
rbturn to the delightful solitude of the Bush. 

As he turned down Collins street on his way to his hotel, he heard 
a quick step close behind, and someone called him by his name. He 
looked round in surprise; for in all this busy crowd he did not 
expect to meet a single acquaintance. 

An elderly man with a care-worn face, thin and shrunken in form 
and figure, approached him eagerly, and held out his hand. 

“My dear Atherstone, I am glad to see you. You look remarkably 
well.” 

“Neil! Can it really be you ?” 

“Yes, I do not wonder at your not knowing me. I am much 
changed, Atherstone.” 

‘Changed ! I should just think you were. What have you been 
doing to yourself ?” 

“ Nothing. But the fates have been against me. Everything 
has gone wrong with me. I have sold my house and land, and am 
going back to England.” 

“ Is that wise ?” 

“I am not sure that it is. But my wife is eager to go.” 

“ Your wife—is she in Melbourne ?” 

“ Yes. She and my two children are at a small hotel just out of 
Bourke street. We sail for England to-morrow.” 
| “ My dear Neil,” cried George, “i am glad. I was longing to 

meet a friend going in the Cimébria.” 


A Striking Contrast. "(121 


“* Are you coming then ?” 

“No. Ido not care to return to Europe at present. But I am 
sending my little girl home to my father.” 

“ My poor fellow, have you then lost your pretty wife ?” 

‘‘ Yes, she is dead. My darling died last year,” and his voice 
grew low and husky. “: She is a terrible loss to me and the little one.” 

‘‘T am sure of it. I feel for you extremely,” said Neil, ‘ and if 
there is anything that my wife and I can do, pray tell us and we shall 
be delighted to do it.” 

“ Thank you, you are very kind. There is not much to be done. 
But if Mrs. Neil would look after Baby a little ” 

“ My dear fellow, of course she will, with the greatest pleasure. 
What sort of person is your nurse ? ”’ 

. “ A most estimable person, and I can trust her thoroughly. But 
it would be a great happiness for me to know that during the voyage 
my darling had a lady to be kind to her, and little friends to play 
with.” 

“ Of course; and we shall take splendid care of her. My Madge 
is like a second mother to her small sister Dora. She will be the same 
to your child. How old is she?” 

é“ Two years and a month or so.” 

“ Just Dora’s age. They'll be companions for each other.” 

George laughed. 

é They'}l probably pull each other’s hair. Is Madge much older?” 

s Oh, yes. Madge is twelve. The wisest little woman in the 
world. Her mother would trust her over the whole universe with 
httle Dora. Come along and see them. My wife will be pleased to have 
a talk with yon. But she’ll be deeply grieved to hear of Mrs Ather- 
stone’s death. Dear me! She was a winsome creature. Well, well, 
my dear fellow,” continued Mr. Neil sighing, ‘‘there are many things 
worse than death. It has been a trial, a great trial, to you to lose 
your darling wife. But believe me, I have suffered terribly in seeing 
mine, the beautiful girl I loved grow thin, and pale, lose her health 
and spirits, and all because of my misfortunes and bad luck.” 

George grasped his hand, and shook it warmly. 

é I am sorry you had so much trouble, very sorry. But I trust 
you may do better in England. I’ll give you a letter to my father. 
For my sake he will find something for you to do. He is in want of an 
agent, I know, and he will surely give you a trial at my request. It 
is a good post, and would suit you admirably.” 

“ God bless you, Atherstone. Your words fill me with hope. It 
was a wonderful chance my meeting you to-day.” 

“It was. But a still greater that you should be going home in the 





122 The Irish Monthly. 


same steamer as my Sylvia. Your fate is in her hands. She will plead 
for you with grandfather. Kindness to her will be a powerful pass- 
port to his favour.” 

é Then my life will be a brighter one than I ever hoped for; for 
there is nothing that can be done for your child that I shall not do. 
But here we are at our hotel. I hope you don’t object to stairs, for 
we have to mount a good many. I'll lead the way.” 

The stair-case was narrow and steep; and the room into which 
the two gentlemen walked unannounced was small and dark. The 
blinds were drawn down to keep out the sun, and so close was the day 
that the white mosquito curtains were undisturbed by the breeze, 
although all the windows were wide open. Trunks of every shape and 
size were ranged round the walls; and the chairs and sofas were 
strewn with garments large and small. There was no one visible. But 
suddenly, from behind a tall screen, there rose the sweet, fresh voice 
of a child, singing a pretty lullaby— 


“ Oh, hush thee, my baby, 
Thy sire was a knight, 
Thy mother a lady, 
Both gentle and bright.” 


“There, that’s my Madge,’”’ whispered Mr. Neil. ‘Just peep 
round, and see how she is taking care of her sister.’’ 

George did as desired, and was charmed with the picture that he 
saw before him. 

On a low seat, her long, well-shaped legs, and neatly shod feet, 
stretched out before her on the floor, sat Madge. She wore a white 
cotton frock, with short sleeves and low neck. Her brown hair, which 
was thick and wavy, was tossed back from her face without comb or 
ribbon to confine it, and hung loosely.over her shoulders. On hor 
knee, her eyes closed, but her lips smiling, lay a beautiful child of 
about two years old. 

“Go to sleep, darling ; my Dora must go to sleep,” cried Madge, 
interrupting her song to remonstrate with little wide-awake. ‘Poor: 
Sissy has work to do. So you must go to sleep.” 

The baby laughed and pulled her sister’s hair. Madge hugged 
her to her breast and covered her with kisses. 

“ You see,” said Mr. Neil, ‘‘ Madge has the temper of an angel. 
No matter how that child torments her, she is always kind. She has. 
a heart of gold, and a wise little head of her own.” 

Before George had time to answer, the baby caught sight of her 
father, and struggling off her sister’s knee, ran forward to meet him. 


A Striking Contrast. ' 123 


‘* Naughty Dora, not to go to sleep,” he cried, tossing her in the: 
air. “Madge ought to whip you.” 

Madge gave a groan of horror, and sprang to her feet. 

“Oh, father, what an idea! I wouldn’t touch the darling for the 
world.” 

“<T should think not,” he answered gaily. ‘‘ I know you love our 
pet too dearly for that. But you must not spoil her.” 

é“ You are more likely to do that, father,” said Madge gravely. 

‘Perhaps so. But it would not be wonderful if we all spoiled her. 
Isn’t she a beauty, Atherstone?” 

“ Bhe certainly is,” said George warmly. ‘I don’t think I ever 
eaw such a pretty child.” . 

“What? Not even your own?” 

“Not even my own. Sylvia is fair and dainty looking. But this 
child is a beautiful little creature.” 

“ So sho 1s,” cried the delighted father, “and we are all very proud 
of her. Aren’t we, Madge?” 

“ T am quite sure you are,” said Atherstone, ‘and I hear you are 
a first-rate little mother in your way, Miss Madge. Now my poor 
Baby is going to England in the same steamer with you. Will you 
be good to her? She is a lonely bairn, and will have neither father 
nor mother to look after her.” 

Madge raised her large grey eyes to his face, and’ looking at him 
earnestly, said : 

‘<I will be kind to her, She shall be another little sister. But 
are you not afraid to send her away from you?” 

“ Afraid ? Oh, no. There is nothing to fear.” 

“Now, Madge, don’t make us nervous,” cried her father. ‘‘The 
fact is, Atherstone, with all her wisdom, my little girl is a bit of a 
coward. Sho hates the sea.” 

Madge shivered slightly. 

‘*T don’t like long journeys,” she said. ‘‘ And I don’t want to go 
to England. I like Australia best.” 

“So do I,”’ answered George. ‘‘ But I suppose your father has 
good reasons for going.” 

The child clasped her hands tightly together ; ; and as Mr. Neil 
moved away to the window with Dora, she whispered sadly : 

“He thinks he'll get work to do, and earn money there. But 
he'll never get it, poor father—never. Here comes my mother. So, 
hush, not a word to alarm her.” And putting her finger to her lip, 
she went after Dora, took her in her arms, and carried her out of the 
room. 

‘What a strange child,” thought George. ““She's certainly old 





, 


124, , " The Irish Monthly. 


beyond her years. And as her father says, she might safely be 
trusted to take care of her baby sister. She is kind and gentle, and 
seems wonderfully grave and sedate.” 

“ Atherstone, here is my wife,” said Neil, in a low voice. ‘ You 
will find her much changed. But do not pretend to notice it.” 

George bowed his head to show that he understood, and went for- 
ward to meet Mrs. Neil. He looked at her smilingly ; but as he put 
his hand in hers, he could scarcely conceal the sorrow he felt at the 
terrible change that had taken place in her since he had last seen her 
four years before. Could this wan, thin creature be the fine buxom 
woman, who had been the life and soul of the company on board ship? 
Cóid this nervous, shrinking lady be the dashing, merry Mrs. Neil, 
who had chaperoned his Sylvia, smoothed away all difficulties, and 
hastened his marriage ? 

“We have had many troubles, Mr. Atherstone,” she said, and her 
voice trembled as she spoke. ‘‘I daresay my husband has told you.”’ 

“Yes. But there is a good time coming,” cried George eagerly, 
‘‘ when you reach England.” 

“Ah! If we ever do.” 

“ My dear lady,” George laughed nervously, ‘‘ Pray do not sug- 
gest such a thing. No wonder the child is frightened at the idea of 
the long journey,” he thought. “With such a mother, good heavens, 
it is not extraordinary she should be prematurely old.” 

“T suggest nothing,” said Mrs. Neil slowly. “I long to be off— 
to leave this hated country. I have known constant grinding sorrow 
and anxiety ever since my return to it, the year you were married. 
But you, too, have been in trouble. I hear your sweet young wife is 
dead. Why was she taken, I wonder, whilst I, a useless, worthless 
invalid, have been left asa burthen to my poor unfortunate husband ?”” 

“Kate!” cried Neil reproachfully, “ My darling, do not talk so. 
Weak and delicate as you are, you have been my comfort.”’ 

“ No, no, John; you would have been far better without me. I 
have but increased your troubles.” 

“Kate, Kate, I know not what to say to you.” And, wringing his 
hands, the poor husband turned away. 

é“ You have a child, Mr. Atherstone,’ she remarked presently. 
“ And she is coming with us to England. You look surprised. But 
I was in the adjuining room ; the folding doors are slightly open, and 
I heard all you said to Madge. Why are you sending her home? ” 

“To comfort my father, who is lonely.” 

“ Quite right. He has grown rich, I hear. She will be his heiress.” 

“I never thought of that,” said George smiling. ‘‘ But I suppose 
I, his son, will come first. Sylvia will surely come after me.” 


A Striking Contrast. 125. 


“é First or seeond it matters little,” she answered gloomily. ‘She 
will be rich—an heiress—a somebody, whilst my darling, my 
beautiful Dorothy, will be a pauper. Ah, Mr. Atherstone, what a 
contrast will be their lot in life! A striking, a cruel contrast.” 

‘Riches do not always mean happiness, Mrs Neil. My Sylvia 
will have money; but your Dora will have a mother to love and 
cherish her.” 

‘‘ Alas, my life is uncertain—a mere question of time, Mr. 
Atherstone. My heart”—— 

‘Mamma, dear, you have talked enough ; Mr. Atherstone will 
excuse you. You must come and rest now.” And little twelve-year- 
old Madge laid her hand on her mother’s shoulder, and looked as. 
though she meant to be obeyed. 

““ Yes, dearest, I am coming,” said Mrs Neil meekly. ‘“‘ Mr. Ather- 
stone, this child is my greatest comfort. And should anything happen 
to me on this voyage, she will look after your little one, and” —— 

““ Mother, Mother, do not talk so wildly.” 

“ Té is not wild, dear. It’s only—only—But good-bye till to- 
morrow, my friend. I am tired, I must rest.” 

And leaning on her daughter’s arm, she went slowly from the 
room. 

George gazed after them, with eyes full of compassion. 

“Isit not sad to see her thus ?” asked Neil in broken accents. 
“She who was once so strong and full of life.” 

“It is, it is,’ cried George. “ But do not fret, my poor friend. I 
am sure this sea journey will restore her, make her all right.” 

“I hope so, I trust so. This journey must and will do her good. 
It will give us all new life, please God, and end our troubles.’’ 


¢ 


CHAPTER ITI. 
ON BOARD THE ‘ crMBRIA.”’ 


When early next day George Atherstone stepped on board the 
Cimbria, with his little daughter in his arms, he found that Mr. Neil 
and his family were already there, and had taken possession of their 
cabins. 

Mrs. Neil was not visible; and George rejoiced not a little at her — 
absence, for her gloomy nervousness affected him unpleasantly. 





126 The Irish Monthly. 


Madge and Dora were walking up and down the promenade deck, 
watching with much interest all that was going on. When Madge 
saw Atherstone and his child, she smiled, and taking her sister’s hand 
went to meet him. 

é“ Dora,” she said, ‘‘ here is a friend for you, a dear little girl to 
play with.” | 

She took Sylvia from her father, kissed her tenderly, and put her 
down beside Dora. | 

The two children stared 'at each other for a moment, then Sylvia 
ran forward, put her rosy lips to Dora’s, and stroked her curling 
hair. 

“ Oh, you dea,” she cried. “You pitty dea!” 

‘‘Sylvia has an eye for beauty,” said George smiling. ‘‘I think 
they will be friends.” 

é“ Yes, Iam sure they will,” said Madge. ‘Sylvia looks a sweet 
little creature, and Dora, though rather passionate, is a loving, affec- 
tionate child.” 

“I am sure she is, and you are kindness itself. Anne,’’ he said, 
turning to the nurse, who stood behind him, armed with packages 
and wraps. ‘‘ This is Miss Madge Neil. Her father is an old friend 
of mine; and I wish Baby to be with her and her sister as much as 
possible.” 

“Very well, sir,” replied Anne, whose eyes were red with much 
weeping. ‘‘It will be pleasant for me to have friends of yours on 
board.” 

“ And it will be nice for me to have you,” said Madge with a frank 
smile. ‘‘ Mother is an invalid, and will be almost always in her 
berth.” 

é“ That is sad for you. But I trust she will soon grow stronger,” 
said George kindly. ‘‘I hope nurse and Baby may have a cabin near 
yours.” 

“ They are next to us,” she replied. ‘‘ Will you leave Sylvia with 
me, and take Anne down to see where she is? She had better get the 
berths ready and arrange all her parcels before we start.” 

‘Wise little woman, your advice is excellent. But I think [li 
take my darling with me. Our moments together are precious now. 
Come, Anne.” 

Then lifting Baby Sylvia, he hugged her to his breast, and carried 
her down stairs. 

“And now, Anne,” he said, when he had made all possible 
arrangements for his child’s comfort, ‘‘take care of my darling. 
Watch her night and day, and see that she wants for nothing.” 

“Trust me, sir,” answered Anne with emotion. “I will do my 








A Striking Contrast. . 127 


duty. Your child will be more precious to me than my own life. Ill 
watch over her well.” 

‘<I believe you will. And now, I think, you have all you require?” 

“Yes, sir. Everything.” 

é Very well. And here is a letter for my father, with his address 

in full, lest by any chance he should be prevented meeting you. I 
have telegraphed and written, but in case of accident it is well to have 
this with you. And here,” taking a locket and chain from his neck, 
“ig a portrait of my dear wife. See, I will put it on Sylvia. Show it 
to my father, that he may know what my darling was like. But let 
the child wear it always.” 

“Yes, sir. And DTI teach her to love her mother’s memory.” 

“Do. And may God bless you.” 

A bell was heard above. Mr. Neil rushed to the cabin door. 

‘* Atherstone, you have barely time to get away. We are just off. 
Come along.” - 

‘‘God bless and protect you, my pet,” cried George in broken 
accents. ‘Good-bye, my dear little Sylvia, my sweet child. Talk to 
her of me, Anne. Do not let her forget me.” 

He pressed the little one to his heart once more, kissed her over 
and over again. Then rushing upstairs said a hasty good-bye to Mr. 
Neil and Madge, and hurried on shore. 

The gang-way was withdrawn, the anchor raised, the ropes 
pulled in, and the good ship Cimbria steamed out of the harbour. 

The next few days were passed in the usual fashion on board ship. 
The wind was high ; the steamer pitched and rolled, and almost all 
the passengers were laid low. The decks were forsaken ; the dining- 
room but little frequented. After a time, things looked brighter. 
The wind went down; the sun shone pleasantly ; and the handsome 
saloons, and comfortable seats on deck were filled with a gay company, 
anxious to enjoy life, and make their days on board the Ciméria pass 
as quickly as possible. 

One of the first to come forth from the seclusion of her cabin was 
Madge Neil. She had suffered much, and longed for a breath of 
fresh air. In the passage she met her father. 

‘Well, my dear. I am glad to see you,” he cried, kissing her 
tenderly. ‘These have been miserable days. How is your mother ? 
And my sweet Dora, how does she seem ?” 

“ Mother and Dora are both much better, papa. They are asleep. 
Will you take me for a walk ?” 

é“ Certainly, dear. Come along.” 

He drew his daughter’s arm within his own; an1 they went up on 
deck together. 


128 The Irish Monthly. 


About an hour later, Anne, looking as white as a ghost, came up 
the stairs carrying Sylvia on one arm, and Dora on the other. 

Madge flew to her side in an instant. 

“How good of you to think of Dora, Anne. I thought she was 
asleep.” 

é“ Children don’t sleep for ever any more than big people, Miss 
Madge,” she answered pettishly. 

“ Oh, I’m so sorry,” began Madge. 

“You need not be. It was no trouble to bring her up, poor lamb. 
Perhaps the sea-breezes may do her and Miss Sylvia good. They’ve 
brought a fine colour to your cheeks.” 

“Yes, have’nt they?” cried Madge, kissing her baby sister. 
‘¢J don’t think I ever felt so well in my life. 1 positively love the sea 
to-day.” 

‘Well, well, I can’t say as I do,” replied Anne dolefully. ‘ And 
oh, dear, England’s a terrible way off.” 

‘¢ Of course it is. Why, we have weeks and weeks before us yet.’ 

“Dear, dear! How shall we ever get through it all? I wish Id 
never left Australia.” 

Madge laughed merrily, and began to dance the little girls about 
on her knee. ‘‘ Poor Anne, but you'll soon change, I am sure. Why, 
look at me! When I started, I was in such bad spirits. I hated going 
to England. I was afraid of the sea. I felt that something dreadful 
would happen to us if we left our home to wander aimlessly over 
Europe. I had a perfect horror of coming on board. But now” 

é“ You seem greatly changed, certainly. You look bright and 
merry. Just as if you had heard some very good news.” 

Madge hid her face for a moment; then uncovered it with a cry of 
“Here I am to the babies.” 

They laughed and crowed, and called ‘‘ Dain, dain.” 

Their orders were obeyed; and a lively game ensued. Then the 
little ones grew tired and rolled off her knee, on to the deck, where 
they sat blissfully content, munching a couple of hard biscuits. 

é“ What a pretty picture they make,” said Madge.” “TI never 
saw such a pair of darlings. Both so lovely and yet such a contrast ; 
I hope they may always be friends.” 

é“ That's not likely,” replied Anne, shaking her head wisely. 
“Your mother says their lives will be as great a contrast as their 
looks. Miss Sylvia is going to a splendid home. She will be a great 
heiress.”’ 

' “é Whilst my poor Dora’s family is certainly not rich ; and she will 
never have any fortune, but her own bonnie face.” 

é“ And a right handsome one that will be. But I would not despair, 








A Striking Contrast. | 129 


Miss Madge,” said Anne encouragingly. “There's many ups and 
downs in life. And who knows what may happen yet? Your pi’s 
clever. He may get on better than ever he did when he goes to 
England.” 

‘Yes, [am sure he wili. In fact I know he will,” cried the girl 
‘joyfully. “ And that's the reason I looked as if I had heard good 
news. Because, I really had.” 

“ A very good reason too,” answered Anne smiling. ‘But what 
is the good news? ”’ 

“This. My father told it to me to-day, as we walked up and down 
the deck together. Mr. Atherstone is very fond of papa. He knows 
him to be good and clever, and he has given him a letter to his father, 
who is immensely rich, and has large estates, I don’t exactly know 
where. But papa knows all about them. And Mr. Atherstone has 
asked him to give papa a situation of some kind there—his agent, I ' 
think.”’ 

“ But, will the old gentleman do s0?”’ 

“ Of course he will. He would do anything for his son. So you 
see, even if our Dora is never an heiress, she will be quite in a 
position to be Sylvia’s friend.” 

“Certainly. And if their fathers love each other, it is only natural 
they should, too, the pets.”’ 

“Bo I think. And do you wonder now, Anne, that I feel 
happy 9 3? 

“No, Miss Madge. And I do hope all these things may turn out ~ 
as you wish.” 

- Madge raised her clear, earnest eyes to the sky, then let them 
wander away over the wide surging waters of the ocean. 

“Yes, Anne, I hope so. God grant they may,” she said softly. 
“T think they will. I feel full of confidence.” 

“And your mother? How does she feel?” 

‘Mamma is always depressed. But she is better, I think. She 
has great faith in Mr. Atherstone.”’ | 

“Which? Father or son?” 

“Both. But she never saw the father, you know.” 

‘‘She saw and knew my master’s wife ?”’ 

“Yes. She knew her before she was married, and was at the 
wedding. She says Sylvia is very like her.”’ 

“Yes. She certainly is. See, this is her portrait.” 

And lifting Sylvia on her knee, she showed Madge the pretty 
miniature that George Atherstone had placed round his child’s neck. 

“ What a sweet, sad face!” cried Madge. ‘‘ How lovely she must 
have been! And yet she looks as if she must have suffered greatly.” 


Von. xviii. No. 201. 59 


130. : The Irish Monthly. 


“I know nothing of her history,” said Anne, releasing the 
struggling Sylvia from her arms. ‘ When I knew her she was very 
happy, but had a sad expression, poor dear. She was an orphan, I 
fancy, from what I have heard. So, unless on her father’s side, 
Sylvia has but few relations. None, indeed, that I ever heard of.” 

‘I’m afraid we haven't any either,” said Madge sighing. “If 
anything were to happen to papa and mamma, Dora and I would be 
utterly friendless and forlorn.” 

“Why, Madge, how solemn you look,” cried her father, coming- 
up at that moment. ‘‘I left you smiling and bright. I find you ”— 

“ Laughing and merry, papa dear,” she exclaimed. ‘‘ Everything- 
looks promising for us now; 80, of course, Í am gay. And see, aren't 
those children well? They are as rosy as possible.” 

‘They are, dear,” he answered, smiling. ‘And even Anne looks. 
fresher than when she came on board. Your mother, too, has. 
improved marvellously. We shall have her quite strong before wo: 
reach England.” 

“ Quite!” cried Madge joyfully. ‘‘ A sea journey is a wonderful. 
cure for faint hearts and tired bodies. But, papa, take Anne round 
and show her all the beauties of the ship.”’ 

“Very well. Come along, Anne.” 

“But Baby Sylvia,” cried Anne. ‘I can’t carry herabout. I am 
too unsteady on my feet, and I don’t like to leave her.” 

é PH take care of the pet,” said Madge. ‘See, we three shall have 
fine games together. Peep—o—Sylvia! Peep—o—Dora! Run off 
and practise your sea-legs, Anne.” . 

So Anne went away to explore the ship, and Madge mounted. 
guard over the babies. 


(Zo be continued.) 


ee ee 


A SHAMROCK. 
(For a Frrenp’s ALBUM.) 


[BEBE are thoughts sweet perfume breathing, 
Bright and sage and full of beauty, 

Culled from past and present ages, 
O’er thy album’s pages strewn. 

From the rich domains of fancy 

Loving hands with care have gathered 

Every bud of sweetest meaning— 
They were planted all too soon. 





A Shamrock. 


Else I might find some stray blossom 
With fresh dew of thought upon it; 
Yet I fain with thy fair garland 

Would one tiny field-flower twine— 
One green spray of native shamrock, 
Fragrant with historic mem’ries, 
On each leaf in letters golden 

Fain I’d write a gift divine. 


Faith, firm Faith, bright, strong, enduring— 
Faith, that life’s fierce storms and passions 
Shall pass by, and leave unclouded ; 

Be this blessing thine for aye. 
Hope, that glimmereth through darkness, 
Charms the present, gilds the future, 
With warm rays of Heaven's glory, 

Imaging eternal day. 


Love, God's crown of bliss, outshining 
All the joys e'er known or dreamed of, 
Perfect as thy fairest vision, 
Be this treasure thine, to keep. 
In thy inmost heart close folded, 
May it ever walk beside thee, 
Safe without regrets or shadows, 
Fears to fright, or tears to weep. 


In the pages yet ungarnished 
Wilt thou give my shamrock welcome 
Only for the fervent wishes 

Fondly wreathed round the stem ? 
Tribute to thy grace and beauty, 
And the mellow light of kindness 
That illumes thy gentle spirit, 

And thy heart, thy purest gem. 


Havena CALLANAN. 


8. Patrick's Eve, 1887. 


4 
131 


132 The Lrish Monthly. 


IN A QUIET STREET. 


AVING arrived at the time of life when one’s own indi- 
vidual comfort appears to be the chief attainable good, 
being by nature bilious and somewhat, irritable, and by profession 
scientific and hterary, I have made up my mind that quiet, the 
most absolute that can be procured within easy reach of every- 
where, is the one thing needful for me. It was after due delibera- 
tion, therefore, that I decided on giving up my comfortable but 
noisy quarters in Pall Mall, and accepting the offer of a friend of 
mine, who assured me that his quiet little house in the quietest of 
quiet streets was absolutely made for me. 

This desirable residence has been let to me (furnished) for six 
months on approval, that I may ensure its suiting me before 
finally agreeing to take it off my friend’s hands. (N.B.—Though 
I am a man of science, [ know how to keep my eyes open.) 
There is a little library at the back—the very thing for a 
literary man—with cupboards and book-cases, and a beautiful 
place for my beloved writing-table in the window. It has, 
however, one drawback, which, to a person of my age, tempera- 
ment, and requirements, is somewhat serious: there is no light. 
My neighbour on the left, who is of an artistic turn of mind, has 
built a large studio at the back of his house, which effectually 
shuts out from the back of mine any gleam of sunshine that does 
manage to filter through the grime and fog of a London winter. 
Well, there is nothing for it but to moye my writing-table to the 
dining-room ; being, thank heaven ! a bachelor, I have only my 
own convenience to consult, and the street is so quiet I am not 
likely to be disturbed. It sa quiet; the distant roar and rattle of 
the outer world sound faintly in one’s ears, like far-away waves, 
and make one relish all the more one’s own peace and security. 

Hallo! what's that ? A street-singer, by all that’s horrible! 
“Two street-singers, men, entoning a patriotic, or rather incendiary 
ditty, each to the tune they love best, and with a noble disregard 
of time of any kind. They are both extremely hoarse, but, with a 
laudable desire to atone for this, yell with all their might, the 
voice of one of them giving way with a peculiar quavering crack 
at all attempted high notes. There is a chorus too, something 





In a Quiet Street. 133 


about England being drenched with gore, and “ the our-r-r-ses of 
the pore,” which in itself is sufficient to drive any peaceably dis- 
posed man out of his senses. It is evidently their longed-for goal, 
the thought of which cheers them in their labours through the in- 
termediate verses, and in hastening to attain which it is the 
ambition of the one to leave the other behind. 

I ring the bell in desperation, and Jackson, my butler and 
general factotum, appears in answer to my summons. David 
Copperfield in his youngest and callowest days could not have 
stood more in awe of the respectable Littimer than do I of this 
eminent personage. It is not mere respectability—he would be 
mightily insulted if I ventured to call him respectable—but there 
is a loftiness, an imperturbability, an innate nobility about Jackson 
which fills me with veneration. To this day I feel I am taking an 
unwarrantable liberty in calling him by his name; there is a ring 
of familiarity about “ Jackson” for which I am _ inwardly 
apologetic. ‘‘ Johnson” would be more becoming in every way, 
but, on the few occasious that I did venture to bestow this 
cognomen upon him, it was received with such unmistakable signs 
of displeasure that I was obliged to give it up. 

On this occasion, however, my irritation gets the better of my 
customary caution. 

“ Jackson,” I cry, “ for Heaven’s sake send those brutes away.” 

He gazed at me in dignified astonishment. 

“é Those singers, Jackson—get rid of then at once. I shall be 
m a lunatic asylum soon if this goes on.’ 

“ Oh, the singers ! ” returns Jackson. “I will tell them your 
objections, sir, if you wish, but ” 

“Go at once,” I reiterate eagerly, as from a general quickening 
of speed I foresee the approach of the dreaded chorus. 

Jackson retires in some dudgeon, and after a moment I see him 
standing on the steps outside the hall-door, where, with a princely 
wave of his arm and doubtless appropiate expressions of disapproval, 
he bids the musicians depart. 

They stop for a moment, make some scowling rejoinder, and 
fall-to again with more zest than ever :—' Ho! Engulland, take 
War-r-rning. . 

This is unendurable. I ring the bell again. 

“Why, they are not gone,” I cry savagely. ‘‘ Did you tell 
them what I said?” 





ip. 


134 The Irish Monthly. 


Jackson bows gravely :— 

“I desired them, sir, to leave this neighbourhood, and they 
made answer that this were a free country, sir--that were what 
they said.” 

There’s the chorus again, this time the singer with the cracked 
voice two good bars ahead, and several semi-tones above his com- 
panion. I explode :— 

“Tell them to be off this very instant, or I'll give them in 
eharge as public nuisances.” ‘ 

Jackson retires somewhat precipitately, and sternly looking out 
over the blind I have the satisfaction of seeing my persecutors 
slowly shuffle off with many a lowering glance in my direction. 

I breathe freely once more and return to the knotty point 
which I was revolving in my brain when first annoyed by this 
interruption. Confound it all! they’re at it again, in the very 
next street, the words indistinguishable, it is true, but the tune, or 
tunes, distinctly audible, and the chorus recurring with maddening 
persistency. Oh! for the roar and racket of a thousand cabs and 
carriages to drown their abominable voices! Oh! to be for one 
brief delirious moment a special Constable with a good stout 
truncheon, and to come face to face with those fellows in an unruly 
mob! Wouldn’t I pay them out, that’s all! I’d make their heads 
ache for them, I know, as they have made mine do to-day. 

Somewhat soothed by these reflections, I lay down my pen and 
seek oblivion in a cigarette and the morning papers. I come upon 
some rather alarming statistics which for a moment excite a languid 
interest: only so many thousand police in London to so many 
hundreds of thousands of thieves, vagabonds, roughs of all denomi- 
nations. Gracious me! hundreds of thousands of rascals like those 
outside there—high time something was done. 

They are gone at last; now to work again. . . . Ah me! 
there is no peace for the wicked. Before an hour has passed, there 
is another of them; a woman this time, with a wretched child in 
her arms whose feeble wail mingles with her singing. Singing do 
I say? There is*no distinguishable tune, and no intelligible 
words, but a sort of low exhausted bellow—yes, that is the only 
term for it—like a fog-horn heard a long way off, or like an animal 
in pain. 

I approach the window in wrath, intending to dispatch her 
myself; she looks up eagerly. Her rags flutter in the cutting 


In a Quiet Street. 135 


November blast; her face, and that of the child, are pinched and 
blue with cold, and with a slow monotonous rocking to and fro, 
and an appealing glance at my face, she continues to emit those 
unutterably doleful sounds. I pause for a moment with a shudder: 
that thing out there is a woman, a woman as truly as is the Queen 
on her throne, or as was my blessed young mother who died so 
jong ago, and whose memory to me is so sacred! Still gazing at 
the wretched face, out of which the momentary hope is beginning 
to fade, strange thoughts come to me. There is a picture of 
maternity, I say to myself, ¢here is a mother with her child, to 
some people the beau ideal of all that is beautiful, and charming 
and (I had almost said) divine. What has her motherhood been 
to this creature? An additional burden, a hard, unwished-for, 
unlovely care. What will be the fate of her wretched offspring ? 
To struggle onward, through pain, and dirt, and sin, and abomi- 
nation of every kind, till it becomes a repetition of its mother. 
Woman’s weakness, I say to myself again, a little sardonically, 
what capital is made out of woman’s weakness in our world, both 
by the dear creatures themselves, and the chivalrous of our sex! 
They must have the best of everything, and take precedence every- 
where, and be contradicted in nothing—because of their woman’s 
weakness. A very different story here, I trow. This woman, 
being a woman, is therefore the easier to hystle, and bully, and 
insult—if a thing so degraded is conscious of insult. She takes 
precedence of no one, except the policeman when he desires her to 
move on; and stay—that is a very ugly bruise upon her cheek, 
the handiwork of some cowardlye brute of a husband, I fancy. 
Evidently woman’s weakness is at a discount in her class of life. 
Well, these are very fine sentiments, and I am conscious that they 
do me honour, but they are rather embarrassing all the same. After 
this I cannot very well threaten her with the police, which was my 
original intention; and neither can I stand her bellowing under 
my windows constantly ,as she certainly will do if I give her alms— 
what is to be done? After some reflection I ring again. 

“ Jackson, there’s . . . there's another street-singer ! ”” 

Jackson looks at me with a questioning glance, then out of the 
window at the woman, then at me again. 

“T want to get rid of her,” I resume faintly, “and I think the 
best way would be to give her half-a-crown on condition that she 
promises never to sing in this street again.” 


- 


136 The Irish Monthly. 


This is weakness engendered by my reflections of a little while- 
ago. 

Jackson retires slowly, creaking the door as he closes it in a 
most irritating fashion. Suddenly, just as I begin to breathe 
freely, he opens it again. 

é Did I understand you to say ’arf-a-crown, sir?” 

é Yeg,” sharply, “ half-a-crown, and be quick about it.” 

The door closes, this time more promptly, and I feel that I 
have fallen for ever in Jackson’s estimation. He never had any 
opinion of my tailor, I know, nor of my wine-merchant, but for 
myself personally he had a certain regard; now I am convinced 
that he considers me a fool. 

Well, so I am. Of course, the woman turns up in about a 
week, and the infliction is a terrible one. She lies in wait for me 
when I go out, and follows me half-way down the street, begging, 
besides making the air hideous with her voice at all times and 
seasons. I have threatened the police several times and shall be 
obliged to call them to my assistance, I see, before I can get rid of 
her; and yet I hardly like. Pooh, nonsense! 

As to the bands and barrel-organs, and Italian girls with 
accordians and tambourines, this would appear to be a favourite 
resort of theirs. I daresay there were just as many in Pall Mall, 
but somehow the din and clatter there was so universal I did not 
notice them. 

é“ Besides, this ’ere street is so quiet they likes it, sir,” observes. 
Jackson, to whom I make this remark. “ They thinks they os can 
be ’eard better and that it ain’ so fatiguin’ on the voice.’ 

é The deuce they do! ” 

“ Yes, sir, it’s the quietness as does it,” adds Jackson, with a 
grim pleasure in the knowledge that this statement—reflecting as 
it does on my perspicacity—is unpalatable to me. 

However, notwithstanding all this, my life would be bearable 
if it were not for my neighbours. The gentleman on the left is, 
as I say, of an artistic turn, and Ais studio renders my library 
practically useless, but his tastes are innocuous, nay commendable, 
in comparison with those of the family on my right. They are 
musical (save the mark !), a// of them, and being a large family, 
my evenings are in consequence, perfect burdens to me. I don’t 
like going out much at night now, unless somebody or something 
makes it worth my while; I catch cold rather easily of Inte, 





In a Quiet Street. 137 


besides I generally set apart the time after dinner for rest and 
enjoyment. With a good fire, a cigar, and books and papers «aid 
infinitum, I used to say that I would not change places with any- 
body. I used to say so, but I don’t now. Hardly am I settled in 
my easy-chair before one of the daughters next door (the fat one 
with the flat, red face, I feel convinced) begins :-— 


“ In the gloaming, oh-h-h my darling, tum-ti tum-te tum-ti-ded.’’ 


Now if there is any one song I abominate, it is “In the 
Gloaming ;” but even that is less intolerable than the rendering of 
various well-known operatic airs, which the rest of the family 
affect. There is a son, a conscientious young man, with a very 
loud voice, who practises one particular shake, or trill, or whatever 
you call it, night after night, which drives me to the verge of dis- 
traction. Time after time he begins it, and breaks down, and 
begins again; then one of the sisters tries it, by way of example,. 
I suppose, and he takes it up again after her with renewed vigour. 
Fresh break-down; sister tries again, another sister chimes in, 
they simulate the shake on the piano (very high up in the treble), 
then they aii try it together. When it comes to this I generally 
knock at the wall, which at first had some effect, but now has none: 
whatever except as a relief to my feelings. When I meet any of 
the family in the street, we scowl at each other mutually ; and I 
am forced to go out at night a great deal more than I like, which 
not only ruins my domesticity, but is productive of chronic 
influenza. 

However, all these annoyances—sand they are not trifling—are 
as nothing in comparison to that which I experience from my 
neighbours in the house immediately facing mine. Yet they are 
nice people, there is no denying it, quiet and unobtrusive in every 
way. Their house is very nice and clean, with spotless white 
curtains in the windows, and abundance of flowers; and there is. 
always a cheerful flicker of firelight in all the rooms, and when the 
servant brings in those coloured lamps in the afternoon I get a 
glimpse of such a pretty drawingroom before he has closed the 
shutters. There! Do you not see why these people annoy me so? 
It is because I take, I know not why, such a petty, vulgar, inex- 
plicable interest in them, and in all that concerns them. [I find 
myself watching their goings and comings, and speculating as to 
their doings, and picturing them to myself at different times, in a 


138 The Irish Monthly. 


way that is not only irritating, but positively lowering to one’s 
self-respect. And yet I don’t even know their name, and as for 
them, I don’t suppose they are aware of my existence. 

Returning home one afternoon at dusk, and walking on the 
side of the street opposite to my own house (as it is very muddy, 
and the crossing is a little way down), all of a sudden something 
catches hold of my leg with an ecstatic exclamation of delight. I 
say something, but I ought to say somebody, though the person is so 
extremely small that my mistake may be excused. I look down, 
startled and considerably put out if the truth be told, and see what 
appears to me to be a little bundle of white fur affectionately 
embracing my knee. 

é What is all this P” I cry crossly. 

Then ‘the bundle, promptly detaching itself, reveals a little 
round chubby face with two large, startled eyes. 

“ Oh, please ! ” ejaculates the owner of the face, “I fought you 
. was my papa. I was going to kiss you,” she adds seriously. 

At this juncture, a breathless nurse arrives with a similar 
bundle of white fur clinging on to her, and mingles profuse 
apologies to me with scoldings to her little charge. 

“1 fought,” reiterates the child, “ that Ae was my papa’’— 
pointing a minute finger at me—* but,” after a pause during 
which she scrutinises me narrowly, “I’m very glad he isn’t.” 

“ Oh, for shame, Missy! You see, sir, she do set such store 
by her papa, and he do make such a fuss with her.” 

Here, thinking the scene had lasted long enough, I mutter 
something indistinctly and pass on, but hear, as I withdraw, the 
nurse’s indignant comment on my ungraciousness :— 

é“ Of all the cross-grained, ill-tempered !—well, Missy how you 
could take such an ugly old gentleman for your papa beats me!” 

Another man would have treated this little incident differently, 
and would very likely have put in for the kiss intended for the 
much-beloved papa, but not [. Faugh! Fancy, kissing a three- 
year-old baby ! 

Next morning, as I am at breakfast, I see the nursery detach- 
ment from over the way sallying forth ; two nurses, two perambu- 
lators, and, gracious goodness! three children, all apparently the 
same age, or very near it. I feel a sort of contemptuous com- 
passion for my double opposite. Poor wretch ! I would not be in 
his shoes for something, and to think that I might have been, 


In a Quiet Street. 139 


if not in his shoes, at least in some of the same sort, had I been 
weak-minded and soft-hearted as many are ! 

As, cup in hand, I am still absently looking out of the window, 
somebody steps hastily out on the balcony of No. 13 and calls out 
an injunction to the nurses beneath—a very pretty somebody— 
thqugh I am a woman-hater, I can see that. Big eyes, and pink- 
and-white face, and sunny-looking hair that falls into charming 
tings and little curling tendrils about a lovely brow. ‘“ Tongs of 
course,” I say to myself, but somehow I don’t feel quite so sorry 
for my double as I did just now. 

My double indeed! Why, there he is beside her, waving his 
hand and grinning at his progeny. Ugh! Nota bad looking 
fellow, in your broad-shouldered style, but not a bit like me; a 
good twenty years younger to begin with, I must confess. 

Now he eallies forth, and my attention is again distracted from 
my bacon and eggs and my Sfandard; the sunny head is in the 
drawing-room window now, and gives a little smiling nod as the 
husband looks up from the street. Sickening sentimentality J call 
it; with all those children too, they ought to be ashamed of them- 
selves! I get used to this performance in time, however, as it is 
repeated every morning. In the afternoon about half-past four 
the head appears in the window again—I can just see it defined 
against the red blind through which the lamp shines so cheerily. 
The shutters of ‘hat window are never closed at this time of day. 
Presently the lord and master may be discerned coming down the 
street and the pantomine of the morning is repeated—upward 
glance, downward smile (most likely—it is too dark to see clearly) 
then a flash of lamp-light as the blind is pushed to one side, and 
the head vanishes. 

It is irritating, the way in which I watch this performance day 
after day, almost lying in wait for my broad-shouldered neighbour 
aa his spouse does, and feeling vexed and surprised if he is late. I 
sit in the dusk rather than allow my blinds to be drawn before the 
castomary performance has taken place. I flatter myself, now 

that Iam solving knotty questions within myself, now that I am 
resting my overwrought mind, and I am im reality doing neither 
the one nor the other, but idly speculating about my ‘opposite 
neighbours. 

In fact the confounded quiet of this street is the cause of the. 
change in my character. Living, as I used to do, in a crowded 


140 The Irish Monthly. 


thoroughfare, I noticed nobody because I couldn’t notice every- 

body. Here, on the. contrary, everybody and everything force 

themselves upon my attention, and excite my interest because there . 
is 80 little to distract me. As, for instance, that wretched singing- 

woman. I read with the greatest complacency that hundreds such 

are starving in London. I brush with absolute callousness past a 

score of them perhaps when I take a short-cut through a by-way ; 

but because this miserable unit comes under my immediate notice 

in this empty street, because in the stillness her wretched quaver- 

ing voice is distinctly heard, I become a very milk-sop. 

To return to the people at. No. 13. Coming home one night 
from the theatre, I observe that the husband—I have to call him 
so because I don’t know his name—is walking down the street 
immediately in front of me. He has a latch-key, and I have not, 
consequently, while I am waiting for Jackson to let me in I watch 
his movements with my usual vulgar curiosity. He is a neat 
young man, I perceive, for after he has opened the door he remains 
a considerable time polishing his feet on the mat at the threshold. 
Here comes a little flying figure down the stairs, fluttering white 
draperies, hair very bright by gas-light, outstretched arms, face 
sparkling with smiles—hang it all! How glad she is to see him ! 
And he, great overgrown creature, pushes the door to, or partly to, 
with one arm and receives her in the other. They don’t notice 
me, but I see them. Humph! That sort of thing aggravates me ; 
so, turning round, I treat Mr. Jackson to a rousing peal of the 
bell that brings him to the door with a speed very unlike his usual 
majestic tread. 

Curious how a trivial incident like that takes hold of my mind. 
As I step into the hall, a vague feeling of loneliness comes over 
me. The primness, and tidiness, and silence of the house are 
more noticeable than usual. I pause for a moment and gaze at 
my neat, trim, newly-carpetted staircase with a certain disgust. 
No flying figure here to be gladdened by my approach. There is 
no one in this house to take notice of my goings and comings 
except Jackson, and fe is not likely to fall upon my neck. Ha! 
ha! I laugh grimly at my own wit, and retire to my sanctum 
somewhat consoled. 

About a month or so after this occurrence I notice that the 
daily programme of parting and greeting is not carried out as 
usual. It is true my broad-shouldered friend—or enemy, for 


SRIINRR 


In a Quiet Street. 141 


sometimes I am not sure if I like him or hate him —looks up at the 
middle window according to his wont, but I observe that he does 
so with a certain pained, anxious expression, and the pretty smiling 
face is no longer there. “ Had a quarrel most likely!” I say to 
myself with a chuckle, and I feel inwardly rather glad. They 
ware really tiresome with their everlasting spooniness ; besides, it 
isa comfort to have my own theories with regard to the miseries 
of married life endorsed. One morning as I am waiting for 
treakfast, I saunter to the window according to my custom, and 
fnd that straw has been laid down in the street immediately 
opposite my house, and for several yards on either side. I 
question Jackson as to the reason thereof, and he informs me that 
be understands that the lady at No. 13 is ill. 

“Pooh !—a confinement, I suppose. Really the way these 
people add to the population is disgraceful ! 1” 

Jackson draws himself up. He is a family man himself, and 
is surprised at my levity. 

“T ’eard different, sir,” he remarks. “I ’eard it was some- 
thing on the lungs.”’ 

Where do servants get their information from? It is perfectly 
wonderful how they manage to get hold of things. I’ve no doubt 
Jackson knows all about these people. 

“Indeed?” I say after a pause. “I am sorry to hear it. 
Has Mrs. —— ” 

“ Brabazon”’ suggests Jackson, seeing me in fault. (Of course 
he knows her name.) | 

“ Has Mrs. Brabazon been long ill?” 

“ About ten days I understand, sir.” 

Ah, that accounts for her non-appearance in the window. My 
penetration is at fault again. 

Well, the straw may possibly be of use on these occasions, but 
I cannot see that it is, myself. The vehicles that find their way 
luto this street are not overwhelmingly noisy, and it seems to me 
that by the absolute cessation of all sounds of traffic, minor ones are 
intensified a hundred-fold. Thus the jingling of all the hall-door 
bells in the neighbourhood is distinctly audible, also the footateps 
of the passers-by, while the rattle of milk-cans, and the cry of the 
purveyors of that useful article, “Mi-i-ulk!” force themselves upon 
one’s attention as they never did before. 

Towards the afternoon the straw appears to afford great attrac- 


142 The Irish Monthly. 


tions to the ragged youth of the neighbourhood, who roll thereon, and 
pelt each other therewith, emitting shrill expressions of enjoyment. 
Just as I am making for the bell with the intent of summoning 
Jackson to the rescue, the door of No. 13 is flung open, and Mr. 
Brabazon himeelf rushes, hatless, into the street. The mere sight 
of his haggard, angry face is enough for the urchins, who flee 
precipitately ; it also engenders a certain wondering uneasiness im 
me. I should not have thought that handsome, careless, prosperous 
looking fellow capable of such an expression: I hope there is no- 
thing very wrong. Next morning alas! all the blinds are down 
at the house opposite, and on the following day I read among the 
deaths in the Morning Post that, of Edith, wife of John Brabazon, 
aged twenty-three. Twenty-three! I suppose it is the thought 
of her age, or rather her youth, that strikes me with such a sudden 
pang. ‘Twenty-three, on the very threshold of womanhood, at the 
time when most people talk of beginning life, behold! hers is ended. 

I watch the central blind of her drawing-room idly; there is. 
no flash of lamp-light behind it; never again will the little watch- 
ful figure station itself at its post, never again will the expectant 
face below be gladdened by its smiling greeting. At my lonely 
dinner I picture the solitary man opposite, more lonely than I— 
oh! a-thousand times more lonely. I cannot miss that which I 
never had, and he—why every hour, every moment will bring his 
loss more plainly before him. Had they not everything in oom- 
mon, these two, and were his very thoughts complete until they 
had passed from his mind to hers ? 

It is late now. Someone is giving a ball in the large street 
that runs at right angles with this one; the discant rattle of car- 
riages is over, and the dancing has begun. I know it has, because 
the windows are evidently open and the music sounds faintly on 
the night air; I can hear it—my house being near the corner of 
the street—I wonder if it is audible opposite ? 

Now they are playing a waltz, one of those slow, dreamy things 
that in youth set all one’s pulses throbbing with a thousand possi- 
bilities of love, and happiness, and tender vague hopes, and that, in 
after life, strike upon one with an unspeakable sense of pain, of 
loss, of regret—bringing home to one in a word the consciousness 
of being young and blythe no longer. 

I wonder if that poor fellow over the way can hear it? It is 
enough to madden him. It is but a few years, after all, since he 


March. 143- 


and she were first conscious of the tremors and wonder and delirium 
f their young love; the strains of that very waltz, or one like it,. 
nay have helped them to discover their tenderness one for the. 
other. Well, well, he is alone to hear it now. Kneeling by the 
bal whereon she lies, he may hold her hand, but it will rest pas- 
sively in his, and the tender clinging clasp of the little fingers is 
new only a memory. Not a quiver of the eyelids, not a motion of 
the lips in response to his passionate kisses, his ecstasy of grief ; 
a. still and silent as the grave which even now is waiting for her. 
Fr fellow, poor fellow, God help him! 

What an old fool Tam! What does it matter to me? Are 
there not, scores of such deaths every day, and did I ever yet take 
ene of them to heart? Here I am positively unhappy about people. 
t» whom I have never spoken one word in my life. All this is 
maudlin, simply maudlin—living in this abominable little street 
has done it. I shall be fit for nothing if I stay here much longer. 
Confound it! DT give up the house and take rooms in Piccadilly °. 


M. E. Francis. 


MARCH. 


IE! with your blustering! 
Ho! with your flustering! 

Fie on you, thinking of frighting us, March ! 

Scowl if you dare now, 

Little we care now, 
Whether you're loving or slighting us, March! 
Sure when your brow is all dark with the frown 
Sullen and black, and the tears dropping down— 
When you walk with a fling and a toss of the head, 
And through dint of hot temper your cheek flushes red — 

Knowing you well now, 
" Faith we cun tell now 
There's little cause to be grieving us, March. 

Under your whining 

Your blue eyes are shining — 
Yuu thief of the world for deceiving us, March! 


144 


The Ivish Monthly. 


Bolder and bolder now, 
Turn the cold shoulder now, - 
Snowing and blowing—O shame on you, March, 
But it’s your nature, 
You obstinate crayture, 
IT not be throwing the blame on you, March! - 
Sometimes, in spite of the wrath in your eye, 
The smile on your lip gives bad temper the lie: 
And shaming the growl in your voice when you speak, 
‘The dimples of merriment dance in your cheek— 
O but you’re cute now, 
| Hiding the.truth now, 
Cutting your capers and giving us, March, 
Scolding and pleasing, 
Warning and freezing, 
You thief of the world for deceiving us, March ! 


Up from their narrow beds, 
Raising their purty heads, 
Though your wet blankets you throw on them, March ! 
See the small posies now, 
Lifting their noses now, 


‘Sniffing the sunbeams aglow on them, March. 


Mighty and proud as the king on his throne, 
There's a sweet coaxing way that you have of your own, 
Like a play-actor taking the winter’s dark part, 
With the smile of the summer asleep in his heart :— 
So you may blow, now, 
Rain, hail, and snow now, 
Little your tricks will be grieving us, March ; 
We know your way now, 
Sure it’s all play now, 
You thief of the world for deceiving us, March ! 


Mary ELI7ABETH Buake. 


Linen- Weaving in Skibbereen.' 145 


LINEN-WEAVING IN SKIBBEREEN. 


FA Drimoleague we took the train to Skibbereen, finding 
the latter a much more respectable town than we had 
expected. The name Skibdbereen has a ragged, bare-footed sound, 
but the place has rather a decent aspect for a small Irish town. 
One thing that struck us deplorably was the great number of 
houses licensed to sell drinks. There are so many that along the 
principal street almost every shop window shows a row of black 
bottles. We did not see any sign of intemperance about, though 
so much facility is given. The prosperity of Skibbereen has not 
increased, we were told, since industry and thrift have found a 
centre at Baltimore. Visitors go straight through to the fisheries, 
and take little interest in Skibbereen, which does not even receive 
a supply of fish, as all the fish is carried off by the boats of. 
English or Scotch buyers. This state of things may be changed 
when Father Davis’s projected railway begins to work, and shortens 
and cheapens the carriage to home markets. 

The most interesting feature in Skibbereen at present is the 
new enterprise of the Sisters of Mercy, whose pretty, cheerful con- 
vent stands close by the Cathedral, on a height overlooking the 
town. The Superioress, a bright, energetic, young woman full of 
enthusiasm for her brave undertaking, told us that for some time 
she had pondered the question of how, best to introduce a re- 
munerative industry into the cottages and cabins of the poor people 
surrounding her. She had thought of the manufacture of lace, 
bat reflected that it was already overdone, and that there was 
little satisfaction in the production of any but a really artistic 
fabric, which was difficult to obtain, and harder to dispose of ata 
remunerative price. After long consideration, she had made up 
her mind that linen-weaving was the thing to be desired. There 
existed in the neighbourhood a tradition of weaving once attempted 
there before, and the people had a kindly recollection of their 
former effort, which had somehow failed, and were well disposed 
to make another trial under more hopeful circumstances. For a 
long time the dream seemed impossible to realise, till one day 
chance, or Providence, brought into the convent garden Sir 
Thomas Brady, that [rood fmend of industry in general and the 
fisherman in particular. Sir Thomas entered into the spirit of the 

Vou. xvur. No. 201. 60 





146 The Irish Monthly. 


dream, and promised to see whether it could not be turned into a 
reality. Some time passed, and the ardent nun was beginning to- 
fear that the little seed thus sown would never re-appear above 
ground, when an immense mass of correspondence was placed in 
her hand, showing that her friend had been busy meanwhile in 
obtaining every scrap of information she required from every 
available quarter. Many difficulties appeared in the way, but 
finally all vanished under the helpful hand of the late Sir 
William Ewart, a great linen merchant, of Belfast, who, though a 
Protestant of the Black North, was yet thoroughly in sympathy 
with the project of the Southern Sisterhood. From him came the 
looms which we saw at work in a pleasant upper room of the con- 
vent, and he sent a skilful workman to set them up and to explain 
their mysteries to the Sisters. This first scene in the Skibbereen 
industrial drama was surely a curious and delightful meeting of 
orange and green, North and South, very curious to those who 
know what Protestant prejudice is in the North of Ireland. The 
looms were set up, and the question remained of a teacher to take 
a weaver’s class in hand. The nuns wished to have a woman to 
teach their girls, and a woman was produced who understood the 
art of weaving, but she proved less capable than was needful, and 
in the end a man arrived from Belfast to take the matter in hand 
and steer the boat of the adventure, which seemed in danger of 
foundering. From the moment of his arrival the movement 
marched forward, the lassies and elderly women learned to throw 
the shuttle and make the proper rhythmic motion with théir feet, 
and linen cloth grew on the looms to the intense delight of the 
Sisters, the pride of their pupils, and the edification of Sir William 
Ewart, who pronounced the specimens forwarded to him as 
excellent beyond all his expectations. 

Only last May the looms began to work, and already a good bit 
of money has been earned, and hope has sprung up in many a poor 
home—the hope of escape from hungry poverty by means of the 
flying shuttle and the gold that it will win. The death of Sr 
William Ewart was a sad shock to the community he hal 
befriended, but happily his son has adopted the course his father 
had so nobly taken to heart, and promises every assistance in his 
power to the weavers of Skibbereen. He will dispose of all the 
cloths they produce, but, at the same time, advises them to try to 
provide a market for themselves outside this country, as, in that case, 
they may, of course, hope for higher than trade prices. 


Linen-Weaving in Skibbereen. 147 

The presence of this hopeful industrial work mikes a little 
flutter of joy all through the pleasant convent. A reflection of it 
seemed to be in the very sunshine that lay yellow on the floors, 
and shone in the faces of all the smiling Sisters, who each had some 
fresh accident or incident to tell about the daily experiences de- 
veloped in the course of “our weaving.” One little detail of their 
large enterprise is the conversion of the teacher from Belfast, the 
masculine person who was admitted into the workroom of the con- 
vent with some awe, as being a man and a heretic, but who has 
succeeded in gaining the respect and confidence of the whole com- 
munity. He, on his side, appears quite satisfied with his position, 
and is likely to settle down under the shadow of the convent 
walls, and end his days in the service of the Papist Sisterhood. 
His conversion may be regarded as doubtful, judging by the sly, 
compassionate smile with which, while we examined his cloth, he 
regarded the movements of one of the Sisters, who had brought a 
fresh flower from the garden, and was placing it in the arms of the 
tall statue of the Good Shepherd, which stood in a commanding 
position at the end of the pleasant, sunny little factory. 

We must hope, however, that all the desires of these pure and 
holy hearts may be gratified, and that every cottage in the neigh- 
bourhood of Skibbereen may soon have its loom and its weekly 
wages for work produced. Irish sisterhoods are at present en- 
couraged by the Commissioners of National Education to devote 
their energies to industrial objects. Some time ago they were 
obliged tó give all their efforts to the task of conferring high-class 
education on their poor pupils, who, except in the case of a few 
destined to be teachers, were thus rendered unfit to earn their 
bread by the only means ever likely to come within their reach. 
The pupils left school, their heads a little turned, at the best, by a 
smattering of mental acquirement, and with hands deplorably uso- 
less, quite incapable of maintaining them in the position of life 
they coveted. Now, the evils of that state of things have been 
recognised, and are to be counteracted by the encouragement of 
industrial works in connection with the Nationa] Schools. In the 
Blue Book for 1888, issued by the Commissioners of National 
Education, Miss Prendergast’s report on imdustrial work in the 
schools gives a great deal of interesting information as to the pro- 
gress already made. The National Schools, to which a grant of 
salary in aid of special industrial instruction is available, are 43 in 





148 The Lrish Monthly. 


number. Abut 1200 girls attend them. Departments of Industrial 
Schools in connection with the recognised National Schools number 
about 33, and are attended by nearly 3000 pupils, 230 of whom are 
boys. There are such departments in charge of the Sisters of 
Mercy, at Crumlin-road, Belfast; at St. Malachy's, Antrim; at 
Canal-straet, Newry; and at Rostrevor. At Carrickmacross the 
conductors are lay teachers. In Munster there are industrial 
centres at Kilrush, Kanturk, Kinsale, Skibbereen, and Passage 
West, all under Sisters of Mercy. In Limerick, at SS. Mary and 
Munchin’s (St. John’s-square), and at Adare, Mount St. Vincent, 
Bruff, St. Anne’s (Rathkeale\, and at St. Catherine’s (Newcastle 
West). At Blackrock, Cork, the Ursuline Sisters conduct the 
industrial department, and at Bruff the Sisters of the Order of the 
‘Faithful Companions. There are centres at Fethard and Carrick- 
on-Suir. In Leinster the industrial centres are Carlow, Dublin, 
Warrenpoint, Blackrock, Booterstown, Roundtown, Athy, Kil- 
kenny, Goresbridge, Clara, St. Joseph’s (Longford), Coote-street, 
Mountrath, Maryborough, Mountmellick, Stradbally, and New 
Ross. The industrial centres of Connaught are at Newtown Smith, 
Oranmore, St. Vincent’s (Galway), Gort, and Ballinasloe, all con- 
ducted by the Sisters of Mercy and the Presentation Sisters. 


Rosa MurLHoLLANp. 


OTHER WORLDS. 


ND are those glorious stars unpeopled all 2 
Javes there no thought outside our human race ? 

Men scan the heavens; does no celestial face 
Turn wondering to our planetary ball ? 
Who knows if yet to science it may fall 

IT) find a bridge o’er interstellar space, 

That we those lords of other worlds may trace, 
And message send responsive to their call ?— 


O credulous, yet incredulous! Hear the word 
By God revealed —Beyond the farthest star, 
In highest heaven, most loving friends there are; 
By our repentant sighs their joy is stirr’d, 
We strike our broasts, the echo wakes their praise, 
And they have charge to hallow all our ways. 
T. EL B. 


An Ulsier Poet. 149 


AN ULSTER POET. 


HAVE been asked to write a short account of Patrick 

McManus, who a few years ago, by his contributions to 

some Irish magazines and newspapers under the name of “Slieve 

Donard,”’ excited the hopes of many that at last a minstrel had 

arisen in Ulster who eventually would take his place beside Dr. 

Drennan, Francis Davis, William Allingham, and the best singers 
north of the Boyne. 

McManus was born on St. Patrick's Day 1863, at a place called | 
Kearney, in the Ards peninsula, County Down, about three miles 
from the pretty little town of Portaferry. His father, James 
McManus, was (and is) a unique type of a country carpenter. He will 
talk on any subject under the sun. Take him on music or painting ; 
and, though he has never heard an opera or seen a great picture in 
the course of his life, he will theorise on these matters till the crack 
of doom, and will bear down your arguments derived from practical 
experience with an irresistible flood of rhetoric. He is especially 
strong on Robert Burns, who, he maintains, had he been a Catholie, 
would have been asaint. With thirty years’ reading and a most re- 
tentive memory, he is never at a loss for something to say. In ~ 
politics he has changed his mind as often as Cobbett ; and, if you told 
him so, he would first argue that his doctrines were always the same, 
and then, when you had proved your charge up to the hilt, he 
would fall back on his second line of defence and inform you with 
Emerson (if he had come across the passage) that consistency is 
a weakness of little minds. Withal, Patrick McManus had for his 
father the staunchest of Catholics, and a typical Irish mother, de- 
voted to her children, especially the one of whom we write. 

It was from these fountains that “Slieve Donard” drank his 
first ideas. His father’s talk cultivated in him the literary instinct, 
which was bent towards poetry probably by the old Irish songs he 
heard from his mother. His taste for verse-making showed itself . 
early in his school days. At Ballyphilip National School he 
received a rather better education than most of the lads attending 
it ; and he then began the stern business of life as his father’s ap- 





150 The Irish Monthly. 


prentice at the carpenter’s bench. He was twenty years of age 
when his first poem, “Good-bye,” was published in the Belfast 
| Eraminer. He called this his “literary baptism,” and years after- 
wards he wrote to me that the day on which the modest little lyric 
appeared was the happiest of his life. 

Some young fellows, when they take to poetry, affect long hair 
and an abstracted look, and walk much by themselves. This was 
not McManus’s way. fProsaic as it may appear, he was a very 
enthusiastic Land Leaguer, and a member of the National Band; 
and amongst all “the boys” there was none more willing than 
Paddy (as they called him) to join in any good hearty fun that 
was going on. I have seen him, in a battle of sods, lead his side 
with rare coolness and courage; and altogether he was known to 

“be “all there” and a most determined character in engagements 
of this nature. His enjoyment of real, hearty, breezy, rough-and- 
tumble life amongst healthy, ready-handed boys was intense. I 
remember witnessing a scene one night which gave him great delight. 
The Band had split into two hostile camps, and on this particular 
evening both parties went out on the Lough, each in a boat of its 
own, to entertain themselves and the townsfolk with music on the 
water. The boats collided: a naval engagement ensued. Rud- 
ders and floor-boards, rowlocks, seats and oars—all the movable 
furniture of the boats was immediately called into requisition, and 
a desperate attempt was made by either side to swamp thd enemy. 
It was nearly coming to hard blows, but the humour of such a sea 
‘fight proved too much for some of the combatants, and it ended in 
nothing worse than a universal drenching, the temporary disap- 
pearance of two fiddles, and an adjournment to terra firma, where 
hostilities were not renewed. In the midst of all you might have 
seen our poet thirsting for fight as much as any of them, and 
deriving from the mimic warfare the keenest enjoyment imagin- 
able. Al the while, though he knew it not, M‘Manus was laying 
in a store of material for future use, even as Banim and Carleton 
and Kickham in their day. He took instinctively to the study of 
human nature, as he saw it around him; and you might often 
have come upon him talking to one of the many “ characters ” of 
the town and district, drawing him out, and noting his humorous 
points. 

This was not his only study by any means. He was a 
passionate lover of the beauties of earth and sky to be seen along 








An Ulster Poet. 151 


the shores of Strangford Lough. And they ara no mean baauties 
these. The scenery of Strangford Lough, though the world does 
not seem to know it, is among the best in Ireland. Portaferry 
is quite a place for a poet to spend his youth in. There is hill and 
valley there, and woodland and swift running lough, twice as wide 
and twice as nice as the Rhine at many of its best places; and 
green little islands and old castles, dating away from De Courcy’s 
time, dotted over the shores; and wild sea-birds, and three miles 
out there to the east the waves of the Channel rolling against the 
rocks of Ardullah. These things were not lost on young M‘Manus. 
He drank them in with the wild thirst that the Muse gives to every 
young poet when she first wakes his perceptive faculties to all 
things beautiful and true. Some of his sweetest little bits were 
inspired by these scenes. For instance, he thus describes a lovely 
summer day when he paid a visit to Killyleagh, not unknown to 
the readers of the Life of Archibald Hamilton Rowan :— 


é“ Along Lough Cuan’s castled shore,* 
Around the winding sapphire bay, 

. The white-winged seagulls calmly soar, 
The summer. breezes gently play ; 
And blue smoke curls above the town, 
Floating in eddying wreaths afar 
Beyond the distant mountains brown, 

Across the wailing, wave-swept bar. 
Euchanting Nature dons to-day 
l{er fairest robes in Killyleagh. 


é The soft clouds, tinged with amethyst, 

Across the bright blue heavens pass ; 

The placid ocean, now sun-kiesed, 
Appears a molten silver mass, 

And children on the golden sand 
Play joyously in wild delight, 

While up the sunny sea-swept strand 
The startled heron wends his flight ; 

And meek-eyed cattle browse and stray 

Amongst the fields of Killyleagh.” 


Is not this a pretty picture of a lazy summer evening in some ' 


* From this old name of Strangford Lough the writer of this paper took his nom 
«i+ pinme which he had at first appended to the very touching elegy ‘‘In Memory 
«i Annie,” at page 36 of our seventeenth volume (January, 1889).—Ed. J. .¥. 





182 The Irish Monthly. 


peaceful seaside Irish village? It is from a poem called “ The. 
Ruined Town ” :— | 


‘* Over the mountain's crimson crest 
Quiver the shafts of the sinking sun ; 
Softly they reach to.the billow’s breast 
A parting kiss ere the day is done. 


*-: * * 
‘¢ Pleasantly fall the slanting beams 
Down on the streets of the seaside town ; 
Windows mirror the glowing gleams, 
Chimneys change tu a golden brown. 


“ Far in the gardens the sparrows bide, 
Chirping, chirping among the leaves ; 
Prodigal swallows in raptures hide, 
Twittering, twittering under the euves."’ e 


There are some very felicitous scenic touches, too, in a “98 
ballad, entitled “ The Dawning of the Day ” :— 


“é It is evening in the summer, and the red departing rays 
Of the sun’s majestic glory quiver in the amber haze, 
And the wild-fowl hasten homeward to the margin ofithe brook, 
And the silent song-bird nestles in the leaf-embowered nook. 
Not a speck of fleecy vapour shades the blue expanse above, 
Not a softly-breathing zephyr stirs the tree-tops in the grove ; 
But the first faint dew from heaven moistens meadow, hill, and brac, 
And all nature is betokening the waning of the day. 


‘* Hark! what sound is this which wakens rolling echoes in the glen, 
Breaking through the solemn silence? "Tis the tread of marching men. 
See the dusky forms descending, mirrored ’gainst the azure sky, 
Where the chasm-channelled mountain lifts its haughty forehead high! 
See the marshalled pikes and muskets, with the green flag over all, 
In the brook-indented valley where the shifting shadows fall ; 
See, through henther, furze, and marshland, dark detachments wend their way, 
Round the banner bright to gather at the waning of the day! 


é But why group they by the mountain foot with weapons wild and rude ! 
What enchanting spell allures them to that stirless solitude ? 
*Yis the blissful hour for resting, and what pleasure seek they there, 
When the maid awaits her lover, and the matron weeps a praycr’ 
Ah, the answer you may hear it in that father’s stifled sighs— 
You may read it in the blazing of that peerless peasant’s eyes : 
Tis to listen to their leader, ere they pit their dark array 
*Gainst the spoilers of their country at the dawning of the day.” 


The reference to the stars in the following verse of this poem 





- 


An Ulster Poet. 153. 


does not seem to me to be original,* but I am certain McManus 
would not have consciously plagiarised :— 


‘* It is midnight, sable midnight, trackless is the hidden sun, 
And the stars are stealing softly to their stations one by one ; 
And the mist is on the mountains, and the shadows dense have grown, 
And the peasant host is sleeping, and their leader waits alone. 


* * * 
‘* And he keeps his silent vigil till the lines of livid grey 
Arch the distant east horizon at the dawning of the day.” 


We have surely lost some fine Irish ballads by the early deuth 
of the young writer of these lines. 

M‘Manus’s master passion was Ireland. It is probably not 
the slighest exaggeration to say that his highest ambition would 
have been’ to die for his country. In an elegy on Edward Kelly, 
one of the Kilclooney Wood heroes, who died in January, 1884, he 
speaks of the dead patriot as 


‘* Disdaining to cry for her, 
Scorning to sigh for her, 
Longing to die for her— 
Ready his love and his homage to swear on 
The hilt of his sword on the hills of yreen Erin.” 


The last three lines are applicable to the poet himself; but he 
did not “scorn to sigh ” for Ireland. A note of sadness runs 
through nearly all his national pieces, as, for instance, in his 
address “to the Men of Down,” from which we can only take one. 
stanza — 

“é: Pallid is the slanting sunshine, dreary are the nights and long ; 
Surge the silver-crested billows, silent is the thrush’s song; 


Fields once gladsome, gay, and golden, now are bleak and bare and brown, 
For a sorrow-shaded mantle shrouds the pleasant plains of Down.”’ 


The same sadness runs through “The Ruined Town,” from 
which I have already quoted. But his doctrine is not a gospel of 
despair. It is a noble philosophy that he preaches to his exiled 
brother :— 


e Alexander Smith says of the “ pallid stars’’ in his “ Life Drama ”’ :— 
“Now watch with what a silent step of fear 
They’ll steal out one by one.’’ 
Probably some closer parallel passage lurks in our contributor’s mcmory. But 
how is the hidden sun specially trackless at midnight 7—E4. J. ./. 


154 | The Irish Monthly. 


“ Know you truly, know you truly, were she never to be freed, 
She is worthy of your worship, worthy of your brightest deed.” 


But it is no ordinary deed nor any cold-blooded worship that 
will satisfy him :— 


€ 


é Think upon her, think upon her, till the blood boils in each vein, 
So that, were it spilled to save her, it would melt a circling chain — 
Till the tears which fill your eyelids at the story of her wrongs 
Fall as drops of molten iron on her lashes and her thongs.”’ 


I presume to hazard the remark that we have here a poet. No 
mere verse-writer could have conceived these daring figures. 

It has struck me more than once that there was a resemblance 
between M‘Manus and Dalton Williams, especially as the comic 
and the tragic muse were equally at the service of both. “Slieve 
Donard,” however, had not the light nimble touch of ‘ Shamrock.” 
He was more successful in his satirical pieces; but these are chiefly 
aimed at persons on whom we are not disposed, even in such a 
context, to bestow the immortality of these pages. 

Our young, Ulster poet only wrote during the last two or three 
years of his brief life. A selection of the best of the work 
he has left behind him would make a dainty little volume; and 
the present writer has not given up the hope of such a memorial of 
‘‘Slieve Donard.”’ His verses may be sought in the files of Zhe 
Belfast Examiner, The Weekly News, Young Ireland, and The 
Nation; but many of them never came under the eye of an editor. 
Amongst these last may be reckoned his contributions to a local 
publication known at different periods as The Celt, The Portaferry 
National Banner, and The Lough Cuan Monthly. McManus, the 
present writer, and a mutual friend, Mr. Hugh Doyle, now on the 
staff of a Belfast newspaper, were the joint editors of these several 
journals which, it is scarcely necessary to say, had a brief though 
brilliant existence. The poet-editor was by no means to be de- 
pended on for piinctuality in furnishing his quota. 

I think it was in the winter of 1884 that McManus went to Belfast 
to work at his trade. He had been very happy among those of 
whom he had sung in one of his lyrics as ‘the boys of the noisy 
town;” but some of his friends wondered how he would like the 
busy, bustling life of a city. He did not keep them long in sus- 
pense, for in a few weeks he sent a message home in one of his 
favourite journals — 





An Ulster Poet. 15 


Gr 


** Oh, take me away to my own loved home 
By the sounding sea. 


bá w * 


“ Oh, take me away to my lonely cot, 
From the crime-stained town, 
For 1 would not dwell in this sinful spot 
For a kingly crown, 
And a monarch's wealth would allure me not 
From the shaded shores and the hills of Down.” 


He suited the action to the word and returned home. He 
would rather have ended his days in Portaferry than anywhere else 
in the world. But that would have been too great luck for a poet. 
Ah, poor McManus’s last days did not belie the name we have 
ventured to give him. How is it that so many of these sons of 
song have gone down to their graves in sorrow much deeper than 
that which usually accompanies the death of the ordinary solid, 
sordid citizen ? Think of Scott dying broken-hearted in harness, 
Skellv perishing in the waves of the Gulf of Spezzia, the suicides of 
Tannahill and Chatterton, the dark reasonless closing years of 
Cowper. Think too of the sad ending of Poe, and of “the pit 
abysmal, the gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns.” But Ireland 
has had more “ gulfs and graves”’ of this sort of sorrow over than 
that of Maginn. What of Mangan himself, and of Callanan before 
him—vDavis resting too early in Mount Jerome, Williams in the 
far clay of Louisiana, and “the grave that rises o’er thy sward, 
Devizes?”’ Is there not something here to drop a tear over? It 
is with whispering breath that I name our humble northern car- 
penter in such goodly company; but if he has no claim to sit in 
‘Tara’s hall with the minstrels, “him grant a grave to, ye pitying 
noble,” among those true souls who poured out their very heart’s 
blood in song for Ireland. 


Here he had hoped and prayed to live and die :— 


“ I would rather live in Ireland—and the thought comes from my heart — 
would rather toil in Ireland, on the barest, bleakest part, 
“Spurned by every village magnate, smote by every minion’s hand, 
Than abide in pomp and panoply in any other lund. 


s: 1 would rather live in Ireland than where palms and olives grow, 
Nodding gently to the music of the softest winds that blow— 
Than where any silken lordling after fleeting pleasure ruves, 
"Mid the citrons and bananas, through the shady orange groves. 


106 The Irish Monthly. . 


é“ I would rather live in Ireland—ay, a hundred thousand times — 
Than in all the tropics’ lustre or in beauty-hauuted climes ; 
Than in all the stately splendour of the cities in the West, 
Or where temples cast their shadows on the Tiber's storied brewst. 


é I would rather live in Ireland ; for, although the spoiler’s breath 
Lovust-like may sweep her valleys, spreading ruin, dearth, and death, 
Still it cannot chill the sunshine, and it cannot yet—thank God '— 
Hush the murmurs of the rivers, chase the shamrucks from the sod. 


é“ I would rather live in Ireland, though I live a life of care, 
And my ears for ever hearken to a pity-pleading prayer— 
Though nty eyes are weary watching the departing cowards’ flight, 
And my brain is ever burning in the noon-day and the night. 


“ I would rather live in Ireland, for my dearest dreams of fame, 
All my fondest aspirations, were commingled with her name— 
Pictured visions born with boyhood and in hopeful manhood prized, 
Ye have kept your natal brightness though ye ne’er were realised : 


“I would rather live in Ireland ; for the friends you make are true 
Ah ! ’tis sad to think I’ve bade to some a long and last adieu) : 
Though the spectral gaze of famine bids all earthly joys depart, 

It can never chill the kindness in a tender Irish heart. 


é And I'll live in outraged Ircland—poor and hated, crushed and bauned— 
That's a right by Heaven granted to the lowliest in the land ; 
But I'll wait with growing trustfulness for that approaching day 
Which will wake dear Erin's smile, and wipe her tears away.”’ 


Not only to live in Ireland but to die and be buried there. So he- 
had prayed in a poem which he called “ My Grave,” probably not 
forgetting that that was the name which Thomas Davis gave to his 
well known lines published at the very outset of his career, in the 
third number of Zhe Nation (October 29, 1842). Forty years 


later McManus thus pictured the grave he would choose for 
himself :— 
. 
“ Away, away from the dusty town, 
With its woeful want and its crime-caused care, 
From the gables dark and chimneys brown, 
From the shadowed street and the stony square, 
Is a still, sweet spot which the rose perfumes, 
Where the yew-trees watch and the mosses creep : 
Oh! there, ’neath the bright laburnum blooms 
I hope to rest in my last, last sleep— 
Away from the glare 
Of the street and square, 
In the depth of my calm, unbroken slec p. 


An Ulster Poet. | 157 


«+ Away, away from the busy town, 
Where the circling trees to the wild wind bend, 
Where the sun-touched cross of the church looks down, 
And its shades with the shades of the tall trees blend, 
Where the night-winged bird of the evening chants 
Its mournful song when the soft dews steep 
The guardian leaves of its lonely haunts— 
I'd fain lie there in my dreamless sleep ; 
Where tha dark pine waves 
O’er the low, green graves— 
*Tis there I’d rest in a peaceful sleep. 


a 


‘If my direst foe whom I now offend 
Would remember no more my foolish deeds, 
If my dearest friend, with another friend, 
Still thought on the one ’neath the churchyard weeds, 
And would sometimes sigh for the days gone by 
When we trod the valley and climbed the steep, 
I could feel resigned if my death were nigh, 
I would rest in peace through that long, long sleep— 
If I only thought 
He’d forget me not, 
T would calmly rest through that silent sleep. 


- 


‘When one with a soft, sweet face would pass 
That lowly mound in her beauty by, e 
-\s she came to knee] at the solemn Mass, 
And would turn to the spot with a saddened eye; 
Or with lingering step would desert the crowd 
To pray for my sinful soul and weep ; 
Oh : I think I'd stir in my mould’ring shroud— 
I'd toss with joy in that sombre sleep— 
If her tearful glance 
Could but break the trance, 
How I'd rise with joy from that silent sleep ! 

An old graveyard in Portaferry was before his mind; but he 
was to be buried far away. In April, 1886, he went to join his. 
brothers in Philadelphia, and he died there in the August of that 
same year, at the early age of twenty-three. 

I know we should be careful to whom we give the noble name 
of poet ; but I hope no reader will raise the finger of protest if I 
venture to conclude this sketch of my dear friend by changing 
slightly the beautiful words of Oliver Wendell Holmes and saying 
that the immortal Maid, who, name her what you will—Goddess, 
Muse, Spirit of Beauty—sits by the pillow of every youthful min- 
strel, came to this poor young Irish carpenter and bent over his 
pale forehead until her tresses lay upon his cheek and rained their 


gold into his dreams. Jons McGraru. 


158 


The Irish Monthly. 


A STORY OF A SAINT. 


ACS the lovely Umbrian ways 
St. Francis strayed at eventide, 
While little birds sang roundelays. 


Fra Paolo, walking by his side, 
With eyes full of love’s gentle beams, 
Gazed on the valley stretching wide 


Beyond Chiasi’s limpid streams, 
Winding from ‘neath the mountain’s feet, 
Like brooklets in a child’s fair dreams, 


Where, shimmering in the Summer heat, 
Above Subaso’s olive wood, 
Gleamed white Assisi’s straggling street, 


With quaint old roofs, as red as blood, 
Shelving within its crumbling wall, 
O’er which the lofty bell tower stood. 


Saint Damian’s soft and silvery call : 
The Angelus in solemn chime, 
Swept down the slope like dew’s hushed fall 


Within a bindweed’s cups aclimb, 
Around the maize’s ripening blade, 
And sighing through the scented thyme, 


It floated o’er the myrtle glade, 
Haunted by yellow-belted bees, 
And died amid the pinewood shade. 


The Saint sank low upon his knees, 
Fra Paolo knelt with closéd eyes: 
A nightingale amid the trees 


Broke into little mellow cries, 
As if it knew tle hour of prayer 
And fain would add its liquid sighs. 


A sudden glory filled the air, 
Its radiance streaming clear and bright 
Around the two men kneeling there,, 





A Story of a Saint. 159 


When Francis, rising in the light, 
Saw flocks of goats a herdsman led, 
And in their midst a lamb, snow white. 


“Ó vision of God's Lamb,” he said, 
“Who midst the cruel crowds for me 
Was mocked, and spat upon, and bled '” 


But Paolo spake: ‘‘ Nay brother, see, 
It is a little lamb outcast 
Epending its days full drearily.” 


So quick across the bridge they passed, 
And he who loved dumb things the best 
Bartered his raiment till at last 


He bought the lamb, and on his breast 
Soft placed the tiny, trembling thing, 
As in a warm and peaceful nest, 


And making each dusk coppice ring— 
“ Love’s Lamb, my loving thoughts inspire,” 
His own sweet song, he ’gan to sing. 


Ubaldo gleamed a golden pyre, 
And then swift darkness hid each height 
And quenched the sunset’s ruby fire : 


A lad who through the purple night 
Thrumming upon his mandolin, 
Sang joyously of love’s delight, 


Heard that rapt voice, the grove within, 
And, hushed amid the acacia bloom, 
Knelt ’neath the burden of his sin. 


So this still eve, from out the gloom 
That rests around those distant years, 
Sweet Saint, thou passest through my room, 


The lamb still nestling free from fears, 
And, like that careless peasant lad, 
Mine eyes filled with a mist of tears, 

I hear thy carol clear and glad. 


Crement J. BE. CARTERET. 


é 


160. The Irish Month, 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. ‘Blunders and Forgeries: Historical Essays by the Rev. T. E. 
Bridgett, of the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer’ (London : 
Kegan, Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co.), is an extremely valuable 
addition to the literature of history. Mr. Gladstone lately expressed 
his admiration for ‘‘Father Bridgett’s extraordinary acumen and 
research,” and he paid him the further compliment of being convinced 
hy his arguments and withdrawing publicly a statement he had made 
about an incident in the life of Blessed John Fisher. But few have 
such candour and largeness of mind; and we fear that similar 
retractations have not been made by Canon Perry, Dr. Lyon Playfair, 
and other writers who are convicted of having blundered through their 
ignorance of Catholic matters and through reshness and self-sufficiency. 
The amount of painstaking research that has gone to the making of 
this hook is incalculable; and fortunately these stores of minute and 
accurate learning are set forth in an admirable style that exactly suits 
the subject—a clear and pleasant style, equally removed from dulness 
and flippancy. The first part of this work consists of five essays on 
certain ‘‘blunders”’ committed by writers generally of high authority; 
and the second part is devoted to the exposure of certain ‘ forgeries.” 
The longest and in some respects most important discussion in the 
volume is that with which it concludes—‘‘ Robert Ware, or a Rogue 
and his Dupes.” This is particularly interesting to Irish readers, for 
many of Robert Ware’s forgeries regard Irish affairs, and the man 
himself was the unworthy son of the well known Irish antiquarian and 
annalist, Sir James Ware. Father Bridgett for his laborious investi- 
gations deserves the gratitude of all who wish that history should not 
be what a famous writer represented it as having been for three 
centuries—a conspiracy against the truth. This very learned and 
ingenious volume is in many respects the most useful and certainly 
the most generally interesting of the many works that Catholic litera- 
ture owes to the indefatigable Redemptorist who seems to have taken 
the same vow as his illustrious Founder about the diligent employ- 
ment of every moment of time.* 


* As we wish this name to be familiar to any readers who have not already learned 
to axsociate it with solid learning and piety, we venture to allude to a mistaken 
notion that we have known to have been entertained that Father Bridgett was called 
so in the same way that the Hon. and Rev. George Spencer was known as Father 
Ignatius. But no, this unusual family name was borne by him as a Protestant 
student at the University of Cambridge, which he left to enter the Catholic Church, 
and soon after the Redemptorist Order, so dear to Limerick and all Ireland. 


Notes on New Books. 161 


2. Mr. Gladstone’s review of Ellen Middleton, disinterred after 
forty years, has probably relieved Burns and Oates’s shelves of many 
copies of their reprint of Lady Georgiana Fullerton’s earliest novel. 
We trust that the same effect may be produced with regard to a 
pretty book of stories published by Mr. R. Washbourne, 18 Pater- 
nuoster Row, when the author is recognised as Miss Amy Fowler, the 
eonvert daughter of an Anglican clergyman, who is now making 
Molokai her home. As a Dominican nun, her name is Rose Gertrude, 
and as such she is thus addressed by another Anglican clergyman, 
the Rev. H. D. Rawnsley, in Zhe Pall Mall Gazette :— 


‘* Sister Rose Gertrude! when the angels came 
And fired your soul and filled your girlish eyes 
With that fierce splendour of self-sacrifice, 

Whoee passionate glory death can never tame, 
Did tropic lands with flowers and fruit out-flame P 
Bright shores from hyacinthine seas arise ? 
Or heard you Pain in some far Paradise, 
Cry for a Saviour in the Saviour’s name ? 


Nay rather, then, the paradisal flower 
Of Love, heaven-planted in your heart of earth, 
Turned to the light to find its being whole, 
And o’er dark seas you went with pity’s power 
To share true Life’s communicable birth, 
And realise the God within your soul.”’ 


It is pleasant to be able to add that Amy Fowler tells her pretty 
stories so prettily that they do not need the extraneous recommendation 
of having been written by Sister Rose Gertrude. “Little Dick’s 
Christmas Carol” contains five tales, beside the one that gives its 
name tothe book. The three first are in reality one story. Every 
one of the half dozen is interesting, edifying (and not too edifying), 
and very charmingly written, worthy of warm praise for its own sake, 
even if the writer had not given up home and friends to become a 
Catholic, and had not now gone across the world to nurse the poor 
lepers of Molokai. 


3. Sir John Croker Barrow has published the third and concludin: 
pert of his legendary poem, “ Mary of Nazareth” (London: Burns 
and Oates). Though he calls it legendary, hardly a line of it rests on 
mere legend ; the devout Muse has followed the letter of the inspired 
narrative with great fidelity. The same stately heroic metre is used 
as in the two previous parts, and the same device is resorted to for 
breaking the monotony of the heroic couplet: namely, the rhymes do 
not follow one another in couplets, but are arranged irregularly in 


Vou. xvin. No. 201. . 61 





162 The Irish Monthly. 


quatrains and other forms. Three or four branches of the subject are 
also treated in short lyrical pieces, as was done also in Parts I. and 
II. Indeed, we are not sure that the poet was well advised in 
separating, by long intervals, the publication of the three portions of 
his not very long poem. ‘‘Mary of Nazareth” cannot be said to 
thrill the heart; but it pleases both the spiritual and artistic taste. 


4. Seven articles of Cardinal Manning on National Education are 
joined together in a small but valuable book—articles mainly, by 
which, during the last five years, His Eminence has described the 
unequal and inadequate state of the legal provisions for National 
Education in England. The volume is published by Burns and 
Oates. 


5. Mr. R. Washbourne has brought out with his usual care and 
good taste a translation by M. C. J., of Father Jennesseaux’s modern 
edition of an excellent treatise on ‘‘The Divine Favours granted to 
Saint Joseph,” written with great unction and discretion by Father 
Stephen Binet, 8.J., the schoolfellow and life-long friend of St. 
Francis of Sales. The devout clients of St. Joseph, and those who 
wish to become such, will find solid nourishment for their devotion in 
these 150 pages, divided into fifteen short and clear chapters. The 
translation is very good. Another March Saint is the Apostle of 
Ireland. It is enough to announce a new edition of the popular work 
ou St. Patrick by the Very Rev. T. H. Kinane, Dean of Cashel (Dub- 
lin: M. H. Gill and Son). From the same Diocesa and the same 
Publishers comes ‘St. Patrick, Apostle of Ireland,” by the Rev. 
Arthur Ryan, President of St. Patrick’s College, Thurles. A brief, 
agreeable, and yet learned sketch of the Saint’s life is followed bya 
novena of meditations, and common to all the nine days a very earnest 
and practical prayer and a very musical hymn, with plenty of rhyme 
and rhythm, and reason also. With St. Joseph and St. Patrick we 
may join St. Francis of Assisi. Though his feast is not in March, 
but as far away as October, several books about him have made their 
way to our library table this month. Newcastle-on-Tyne (Warburton 
and Co.) sends the Encyclical of Leo XIII. on St. Francis of Assisi 
and the Propagation of his Third Order, followed by the life of 
Blessed Lucius, its first member; and London sends five books 
relating to the Seraphic Saint. Mr. Washbourne has issued new 
editions, both of Miss Lockhart’s excellent translation of St. Bona- 
venture’s life of him, and of a translation of his “ Works,” namely, 
his letters, monastic conferences, canticles, prayers and familiar 
colloquies. This last is a particularly holy and beautiful book. 
Finally, the Catholic Truth Society, in penny pamphlets, furnishes us 








Notes on New Books. 163 


with Legends of St. Francis (from the Moretti), the Sayings of 
Brother Giles, one of his first followers, and Legends of Brother 
Juniper, another of them. 


6. The Worlds Fair which is to be held in 1892 in Chicago, St. ' 
Louis or New York*, in honour of the fourth centenary of the discovery 
of the New World, will probably outstrip all similar celebrations that 
our half century has ever seen. The first book published in connection 
with it is “Isabella of Castile, 1492-1892,” by Eliza Allen Star, 
(Chicago: C. V. Waite and Co.) It is published under the auspices — 
of the Queen Isabella Association, which has been founded to secure 
for Isabella of Spain her proper recognition as the patron of 
Columbus, one of its special objects being the erection of her statue, 
which has very appropriately been entrusted to a woman sculptor, 
Harriet Hosmer, who would be greatly surprised if she saw herself 
styled the Mary Redmond of the United States. This monograph on 
Queen Isabella has been written by the most competent of her sex, 
Miss Starr’s artistic taste is seen in all the externals of her book. They 
certainly do these things well on the other side of the Atlantic. 


7. Brother Azarias is the religious name of an Irishman, who, asa - 
Brother of the Christian Schools, has done some noble work for Catholic 
education in the United States. In Catholic literature he has made 
himself felt chiefly through his contributions to Zhe Catholic World, and 
The American Catholic Quarterly. To the recently deceased editor of 
the latter Review Brother Azarias dedicates his latest publication 
“Books and Reading,” which is sold at twenty-five cents for the 
benefit of the Cathedral Library of New York, and is now in a second 
edition. It is a sort of hand-book for the Reading Circles which are 
being organised among American Catholics. This pamphlet of seventy 
pages is an excellent piece of literature, full of interesting facts and 
remarks, and marked by far more novelty and freshness than it might 
be supposed possible to lend to such a theme. Those at home here 
who have anything to say to the guidance of young people in their 
reading would do well to procure this lecture of Brother Azarias and 
a recent book of Maurice Francis Egan, on English Literature. Both 
of those Irish Americans pruise earnestly a book by an Irishman, 
almost utterly unknown at home, both man and book—‘“ Dion and 
the 8ibyls,” by Miles Gerald Keon. We are sorry to say that Brother 
Avarias is mistaken in naming Annie Keary among Catholic writers. 
The spirit of her Castle Daly and others of her stories is so good as to | 
deceive one into thinking her one of ourselves. Her dearest friend 
became a Catholic and a nun, and remained her dearest friend; but 


164 The Irish Monthly. 


Miss Keary never found her way into visible union with the Catholic 
Church. . 


8. “Saint Cecilia’s Gates,” by Esmeralda Boyle (Dublin: James 
Duffy &.Son), is another link between the Old and the New World. 
Miss Boyie is a native of the United States, with Irish blood and an 
Trish name and heart. Her dainty little quarto is full of poetic feeling, 
and recalls vividly many holy scenes and many holy moods. A grent 
many of the pieces are very short and need a good deal of sympathy 
to enable the reader to interpret the writer’s full meaning. 


9. These notes on new books are confined to those books which are 
sent expressly for this purpose by those who are concerned in their 
success. This month the majority of these new Publications come to 
us from America. Benziger sends the fifteenth volume of the great 
Centenary Edition of the Ascetical Works of St. Alphonsus Liguori, 
which comprises the treatises that may be grouped under the title 
‘The Preaching of God's Word.” The same energetic firm, as if to 
show us that their enterprise is not confined to ascetic works, has sub- 
mitted to our inspection specimens of their school books, a “New 
Primer,”’ and a “New First Reader,” both compiled by a Catholic 
Kishop, Dr. Gilmour of Cleveland. The pictures and the artful 
grouping of small words seem admirably adapted to coax the young 
student forward. Another firm that has one foot in Germany and 
another in the United States—a wider stretch than the Rhodian ~ 
colossus was able to compass—is Herder, of Freiburg, in Baden, and of 
St. Louis, in Missouri, who sends us a rather large ‘Illustrated Bible 
History of the Old and New Testaments,”’ translated from the 
German of Dr. Schuster, and revised by several clergymen. 


10. Another set of American publications, which, as they have 
travelled so far, must at least be mentioned, for this is enough to 
recommend them. The seventh thousand of the Rev. Thomas J. 
Jenkins’ “ Christian Schools” (Murphy: Baltimore); “ The Spanish 
Inquisition,” by Dr. Dwenger, Bishop of Fort Wayne (Benziger 
Brothers); and an extremely eloquent and interesting Jecture on 
Culture and Practical Power by an Irish-Canadian M.P., Mr. Nicholas 
Flood Davin, published at Regina, in the North West Territory. To 
our friend, Mr. W. J. Onahan, City Comptroller of Chicago, we owe 
very many favours, the latest being copies of the official record of 
“The Dedication and Opening of the Catholic University of America, 
Nov. 13, 1889,” and of the magnificent ‘Souvenir Volume Illustrated” 
(Detroit: William H. Hughes), which is a worthy memorial of three 
great events in the history of the Catholic Church in the United 


Notes on New. Books. 165 


States—the celebration of the Centenary of the establishment of the 
American hierarchy, 1779-1889, the first American Catholic Congress, 
and the Dedication of the Catholic University. The addresses, essays, 
and sermons, and the record of the other proceedings, are very inter- 
esting and contain much valuable matter. The volume, which is a 
splendid specimen of the best American typography, is profusely 
illustrated with pictures of buildings of Catholic interest in the States, 
of the chief laymen who organised this celebration, and especially of 
the American hierarchy, so numerous that very few, if any, of the 
thirteen archbishops and seventy-five bishops are omitted. These por- 
traits are engraved in that excellent artistic manner to which Zhe 
Century Magazine has accustomed even European eyes. In addition, 
therefore, to its religious and historical interest, this Souvenir Volume 
is elegant enough to adorn the drawingroom table of a refined Catholic 
home. 


11. It is only as literature, and an interesting and valuable piece 
of literature, that we can notice Dr. George Sigerson’s ‘‘ Political 
Prisoners at Home and Abroad’? (London: Kegan, Paul, Trench, 
Trubner & Co.) Dr. Sigerson was a member of the Royal Commission 
on Prisons in 1884, and has made the subject a special study. Quitea 
literary flavour is given to the earlier chapters, especially by extracts 
from William Cobbett, Leigh Hunt, and others, describing the treat- 
ment they received in prison. The present work must be consulted 
by all who have any concern with the subject.. It is introduced by a 
short recommendatory letter from Mr. James Bryce, the learned author 
of “The Holy Roman Empire,” and more recently ‘‘ The American 
Commonwealth,” whom we were glad to see referred to lately as 
“that erudite Belfastman.”’ 


12. The Catholic Truth Society, 21 Westminster Bridge Road, 
S.E., has issued a shilling volume, neatly bound, with the title of 
“Science and Gcientists: some Papers on Natural History,” by the 
Rev. John Gerard, 8.J. -1t is quite remarkable for the fulness and 
minuteness of its knowledge, manifestly not second-hand, and for the 
freshness and quiet brilliancy of the style, which makes solid in- 
struction delightful. 


13. “On Rescue Bent!” by Austin Oates (London: Burns and 
Oates), describes in a very taking way the work of the Catholic Rescue 
and Protection Society of Manchester, and the sad need there is for 
such a work. We are allowed to understand something of ‘A Night 
in a Common Lodging House,” *‘Saturday Night in the Free and 
Easies,”-*‘On Tramp, or Thirty-eight Hours in a Casual Ward,” 


ÍRE. 


166 The Irish Monthly. 


“Monday Morning in the Police Courts,” and “A Day in the Office 
of the Catholic Protection and Rescue Society,” which through the 
zeal and energy of Dr. Vaughan and the earnest men who carry on 
the work, is doing much to save the poor Catholics of that great 
English City, most of them of course from our own dear land. And we 
at home—are all of us according to our ability ‘‘on rescue bent?” . 
Do we do enough to support the various institutions established for 
rescuing the fallen and saving the young from the sad need of 
rescue ? 


14. “The Secular office, being Notes compiled as a general guide 
to the Divine office extra Chorum,’’. by the Rev. E. J. Ryan (Dublin : 
M. H. Gill and Son), will hardly be intelligible to any but those who 
are accustomed to the recitation of the Divine office, and to them it 
will not be of much interest or utility. 


15. ‘The Bugle Call, and Other Poems,” by Augusta Clinton 
Winthrop (Boston: W. H. Clarke and Co.) is one of the most daintily 
produced volumes that even Boston has ever sent forth. One is 
further prejudiced in its favour from seeing it “lovingly dedicated ” 
to a man whom we all revere, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and to Louise 
Chandler Moulton, whom many of us admire for her rare charm of 
style in verse and prose. In Miss Winthrop’s poems there is great 
variety of theme and treatment. We prefer those which take their 
inspiration from piety. In many of them the author, though an 
American, shows a warm Irish heart, God bless her! If we could 
indulge in the luxury of quotations, we suspect that our first choice- 
would fall either on “Sweet Friend” or on ‘ Three Souls.” 


16. Another American book must be our last this month. It is, 
we think, the first that has come to us from Milwaukee—“ Rational 
Religion,” by the Rev. John Conway, Editor of ‘The North Western 
Chronicle.” With a style as clear and bold as the type in which 
ffoffmann and Company have set up the book, Father Conway 
discusses all the questions that interest a religious enquirer in a com- 
munity such as he lives among—God, the Trinity, the Divinity of 
Christ, Miracles, Faith and Reason, Faith and Physics, Faith and 
Evolution, the Church and the Bible, the Veneration of the Blessed 
Virgin, and many other points of doctrine and practice. Please God, 
the book will be a help to many an honest searcher after truth, and 
will enable its Catholic readers to give a reason for the faith that is in 
them. 


17. It is but right that we should occasionally give a kindly 





N 


Notes on New Books. 167 


greeting to the magazines and other periodical publications that take 
the trouble of visiting our editorial sanctum month after month, or at 
other stated periods. The most dignified of these is The American 


Catholic Quarterly Review (Philadelphia: Hardy and Mahony). In. 


the latest number the paper of most general interest is one in which 
Monsignor Bernard O’Reilly describes the diplomatic efforts of the 
British Government in its relations with the Holy See some sixty years 
ago. Many interesting and important letters of the then Rector of the 
Irish College at Rome, who was afterwards to be Cardinal Cullen, 
and several other original documents, are given in this article, which 
is only the firat of a series. Two other American magazines are most 
punctual in their visits, Zhe Catholic World and The Ave Marta. The 
former will allow us to say that it has had a great loss in Father 
Hecker, and the latter will allow us to say that it has had a great gain 
in Mr. Maurice Egan. From a greater distance than any of these and 
at rarer intervals comes to us Our Alma Mater, which is not a monthly 
nor even a quarterly, but ‘‘a school annual edited by the students of 
St. Ignatius’ College, S.J., Riverview.” This is the Jesuit College of 
Sydney, New South Wales, which, if we may judge by the pictures 
given here of the college buildings, chapel, cottage hospital, swim- 
ming baths, and especially the beautiful view of all together as seen 
from the river, must be worthy of. that vast Australian continent. 
Even to benighted European outsiders this volume is of great interest; 
but what must it be to the Riverviewers themselves, past, present, and 
future? ‘‘The Geelong Grumble” adds considerable piquancy to the 
present issue, which, we trust, will be absent from the ten remaining 
years of this century: for we need not yet send our wishes so far for- 
ward as the Twentieth Century. It strikes us that Riverview has hit 
on the proper maximum (and minimum) of academic journalism. 
Even Zhe Fordham Monthly and other American visitors, with all their 
merits, do not convince us that such frequent appearances are useful. 
They must interfere with better things. But indeed we know very 
little about the matter. At any rate it would scem that every large 
school, like Clongowes here at home, should at least once each year 
issue some such record of its proceedings. These records may acquire 
very great value in after times. ‘‘Our Alma Mater ” seems to us an 
excellent model for such a college annual. But, with all due respect 
for Fordham and Riverview and the rest, The Stonyhurst Magasine 
bears away the palm for the interest it contrives to throw round its 
local surroundings. However, some Geelong grumbler would object 
that this merit is not due to ‘‘a bona fide schoolboy.” Most decidedly 
not, and so much the better. The editorial chair is too sacred an 
institution for schoolboys to meddle with except under prudent re- 


168 . The Irish Monthly. 


strictions. As those who are intested in Zipptncott’s Magazine have 
taken the trouble to forward the January and February parts, we may 
second their wish to extend their European circulation, as Harper's 
Monthly and The Centnry Megazine have done, by expressing our wonder 
ut the vast quality of excellent matter that this American periodical 
furnishes for a shilling. The most noticeable contributions are from 
Julian Hawthorne, who inherits a great deal of his father’s genius. 
Indeed Nathaniel Hawthorne is himself a contributor, his sketch of one 
of his stories being annotated and filled up by his son. Our last word 
will be given to Commercial Ireland, an extremely well printed and well 
edited journal, which is true to its name and sticks to its proper pur- 
pose. Business and advertisements very properly occupy nearly all 
the space; but the occasional scraps of literature are good in their 
wiy, like the grass which grows in the crevicos of the rocks that cover 
a field in some parts of Connaught, where sheep fatten well, we are 
told, on what seems to be nothing but stones. 


DAMIANUS APOSTOLUS LEPROSORUM. 


ORTE jaces victus, Damiane, invicte laborum ! 
Fato functus abes quo nunquam dignior alter 
Vita perpetua, nec te revocare peremptum 
Vota valentve preces, nec luctum tempus abegit, 
Nec desiderium mollit miserabile nostrum. 
Tu patriam linquis, tu moestos linquis amicos ; 
Tu fers auxilium queerens confinia mundi 
Qua miseri morbo confecti speque carentes 
Marcebant homines passim, medicina neque ulla 
Nec requies erat usque mali. Reperire nequibant 
Oorpora qui curet morbo jam dedita morti. 
Huc svlator ades fessis succurrere doctus 
Et mulcere malum, tamen omne recidere nescis 
— Nec datur— et lenis vim lent# mortis amaram, 
Templa Dei monstrans securaque tecta piorum, 
Et Crux, una Salus, csxecis spem reddit ocellis. 
Sancte, vale, pater, has nunquam rediturus ad oras ; 
Lux cecidit vites, fame tibi gloria vivet 
ZEternumque tuum recolent pia secula nomen. 
H. A. Hryxsown. 
Clongowes Wood College. 





APRIL, 1890. 


—————_—_—_of-——_—____- 


A STRIKING CONTRAST. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE MISER OF KINGSOOURT,” ‘“‘ THE STRANGE ADVENTURES 
OF LITTLE SNOWDROP,’’ ETC. 


CHAPTER IV. 
A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 


HE long voyage was almost ata end. Nothing had occurred to 
disturb its peace and harmony. The weather had been splendid ; 
the passengers agreeable and entertaining. And as the Ciméria 
bowled merrily through the Mediterranean, Madge was enchanted with 
all she saw. The glorious blue sea, the clear cloudless sky, filled her 
with delight; and when they ran along the lovely shore and cast 
anchor in the Bay of Naples, words failed her, and she gazed across 
the unrivalled harbour with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. 

é“ To-morrow we shall be in England,” thought Madge one night 
as she lay awake in her berth, “ we have passed the Bay of Biscay, 
our journey is almost at an end, and sometime to-morrow we shall 
reach our destination—England. A new country—I wonder what is 
it like. Shall I feel amongst strangers there? No. Whyshould 1? 
I have father and mother and Dora. Sweet little Dora. I shall never 
be lonely whilst I have all these dear ones to love. God keep them 
safe for me.” 

Then the girl raised herself on her elbow and looked down upon her 
sleeping mother and sister. Mrs. Neil looked white and wan in the 
dim light; but Dora was the picture of health and loveliness, as she 
lay in profound slumber on her pillow. Madge smiled happily and 
sank back upon the berth. But she could not sleep. She felt restless 
and unsettled. Thoughts of the new country, the strange home, her 
father’s prospects, filled her mind and kept her uneasy. 

It was a clear starry night. There was not a breath of wind. not 

Vou. xvm. No. 202. 62 


170 The Irish Monthly. 


a ripple on the water. One beautiful star twinkled brightly at Madge 
through the port-hole, and myriads df little ones covered the blue 
firmament. 

But suddenly a haziness came over the atmosphere, a heavy cur- 
tain of mist fell about the ship, and the shining planets were hidden 
from view. “How strange,” thought Madge. “Isitafog? Oram 
I getting sleepy? Perhaps a little of both. Now, I must really try 
to forget everything and go to sleep.” 

She closed her eyes, and prepared to rest. But at this moment a 
crash was heard—a hormble grinding sound, and then the immense 
steamer stood still, shuddering through all its parts. Then the place 
echoed with cries of horror, and shriek after shriek resounded on all 
sides. 

White with terror Madge sprang from her berth— 

“Mother,” she cried, ‘‘something dreadful is going on. Get up, 
get up.” 

Mrs. Neil stared at the child. But before she could answer a word 
the cabin door was flung open, and a wild terrified voice announced 
the awful tidings— - 

‘*Quick—to the boats—there has been a collision—we are sink- 
ing fast.” 

Madge threw her ulster on over her night-dress, wrapped the now 
weeping Dora in a cloak, and clasped her in her arms. 

“ Mother,” she cried in a voice of anguish, “rouse yourself, for 
pity’s sake rouse yourself.” 

But Mrs. Neil made no reply. Her white face was set; her eyes 
fixed and staring. | 

‘“Madge! Madge!” screamed Anne rushing in with Sylvia. 
‘‘There is not an instant to spare. See, your father will help your 
mother. Save yourself—come, come.” 

Mr. Neil bent over his wife and kissed her lovingly, then started 
aside with a groan of horror. 

.“(My darling,” he murmured in a choking voice, “we can do 
nothing for your poor mother now. God has taken her to Himself— 
this shock has killed her.” 

‘‘Qh! that eannot be, that cannot be. Mother, speak to me— 
speak!” And, sobbing bitterly, Madge flung herself upon the dead 
woman’s breast. 

“To the boats—children and women first,’’ cried the Captain. 
“For God’s sake, be quick. Bring nothing—think only of your lives. 
Quick, we are sinking fast.” . 

Mr. Neil caught Dora in his arms, and, raising the almost un- 
conscious Madge, bore her out of the cabin up to the deck. 








A Striking Contras. 171 


There all was in wild confusion. The fog enveloped everything 
like a pall, and nothing could be seen at two yards’ distance. The 
lower decks were covered with water. People were running about 
distracted with terror. Men and women grew delirious as they clung 
to the rigging, imploring the sailors to help them. 

The captain alone remained calm. He never for an instant forgot 
his duty. The boats had all been lowered; and by the gleam of the 
Bengal lights, burned by the chief engineer, he saw that they were 
filled as fast as possible with the unfortunate women and children. 

As Madge appeared on the scene clinging to her father’s arm, she 
was quickly seized and flung, more dead than alive, into the nearest 
boat. 

“Help, help,” shrieked Anne. And, relieved of his daughter’s 
weight, Neil turned, and taking Sylvia from her, dragged her up the 
stairs. 

In an instant she was hurried away. There was just room for 
one more in a heavily laden boat, and into it she was thrown. 

‘‘The child—my master’s child,” she screamed. ‘I cannot go 
withont her.” ” 

Mr. Neil made a step forward, tripped on a rope, was jostled ruth- 
lessly by the crowd, and fell on the slippery deck. 

* The children—they must go in these boats,’’ cried a sailor; and, 
<atching them roughly, ‘he flung one to Anne and the other to Madge. 

é“ Father, father, come with us,” cried Madge, as by the flare of a 
torch she saw poor Neil struggling to his feet. ‘‘Of what use is life 
to us without father or mother? Oh! come. Let him come, I pray, 
I implore. My father, my” 

But the sailors heeded her-not, and pushed quickly off to sea. 
The thick fog hid the sinking ship from view; and with a shriek of 
anguish Madge fell fainting to the bottom of the boat. 

“ Thank God we are«safe,” murmured Anne, wrapping her cloak 
closely round the child who clung to her in speechless terror in the 
other boat. ‘Thank Godjwe are saved.” 

“So you may say,” answered one of the men. ‘‘ We were the last 
to leave the ship. She is gone—all on board have perished.” 

“ Row for your lives,” cried another; ‘dimly through the fog I see 
alight. Itis a steamer. Row, boys, if we reach her we are safe; if 
not, we must perish of cold and hunger.” 

‘The men fell to work, rowing with all the strength of their brawny 
arms. Fortunately the sea was comparatively smooth, or the boat 
would have been swamped. The men pulled for their lives, and not 
a word was spoken. Anne, with the baby clasped to her breast, two 
other women, and a boy of ten, crouched in the stern, peering anxiously 
for some signs of the saving ship. 





172 The Irish Monthly. 


For some time nothing could be seen; and, imagining they had 
been deceived, the men hurled curse after curse at their comrades. 

Then all at once a cry of joy went forth. Close beside them, 
rising like a ghost out of the fog, was a large steamer almost motion- 
less upon the calm waters. 

The shipwrecked party signalled wildly. Their signals were seen. 
Ropes and ladders were lowered, and men, women and children were 
soon in safety on board a homeward bound vessel. 

They were all kindly treated, provided with food and clothing, and 
sent to bed. 

Much exhausted, weak and numb with cold and terror, Anne gave 
the baby to the stewardess ; and, begging her to attend to its wants, 
staggered to a berth, where she soon fell into a deep sleep. 

Early next morning she awoke, and sitting up, called loudly for 
the child. 

‘‘Pray do not be uneasy,” said the stewardess, ‘‘she is fast asleep 
just beside you. See.” 

She raised the counterpane of the next berth, and showed a lovely 
infant fast asleep, with one little rounded arm thrown above her head. 
But the hair was arich auburn; the long eyelashes that swept the rosy 
cheeks were dark; the nose was short and daintily formed; the pout- 
ing mouth was like a cupid’s bow. In one word, it was not Sylvia 
Atherstone that lay before the distracted nurse, but little Dorothy 
Neil. 

é“ There was another,” gasped Anne, clutching the woman's hands. 
é Another—fair—delicate. Oh, say, there was another.” 

‘‘ Alas! no, my poor soul, there was only one. The other must 
have been drowned. This is the only baby brought on board last 
night. There were children of six, eight, and ten. But only one 
baby, and here she is.” 

“ Drowned—my pet—my Sylvia. Oh, master—master ! What shall 
I do?” 

And, wild with grief, Anne flung herself back, weeping on her 
pillow. Hour after hour she tossed from side to side in passionate 
despair. What was to be done? Where could she go to with this 
motherless, fatherless, penniless babe? She had no money, no 
clothes, no home. If she were to go with this little stranger tu her 
master’s father, and tell him that his grandchild was dead, what 
would hesay? What would hedo? Cast them both from his door 
—and then? Well, they might seek a refuge where they could— 
starve by the road-side, or go to the workhouse. 

Then a terrible temptation took possession of the unfortunate 
nurse; and in her hour of extreme need, she yielded to it. 


A Striking Contrast. 173 


Suddenly, in the midst of her anguish, she remembered that Sir 
Eustace Atherstone had never seen his granddaughter. How, then, 
“uld he know that this little girl was a stranger? How guess that 
she was not his son’s child? How, indeed, unless he were told. 
And there and then Anne resolved that for the present, at least, he 
should not be told. . 

“ We touch at Plymouth directly,” said the stewardess ; “would 
you like to land ?” 

“Land ?” cried Anne, aghast at such an idea, “ without money— 
without friends. Oh, no, I must stay till someone comes for me.” 

“Then send a telegram. The news of the loss of the Cimbria will 
be, or perhaps is, known everywhere. No one will know how or 
where to find you, unless you telegraph that you are coming home in 
the Sultana. We shall reach Gravesend to-morrow.” 

Anne trembled, and became white as death. 

“I feel—_I—am—weak—I cannot—write.”’ 

“Poor thing, you have suffered much. But never mind. I will 
write it for you.” 

She took a pen and sat down beside Anne. 

“Now, what is the address ?”’ 

“Sir Eustace Atherstone, 18 Cromwell Houses, London.” 

bs Yes.” 

“Will reach Gravesend with Miss Sylvia Atherstone to-morrow. 
Saved from wreck of Cimbria. Have no money. Anne Dane.” 

“And will you not mention the other child?” asked the woman 
gently. 

‘““The—other child ? ”’ 

“Yes. Just a word to break the news of its drowning.”’ 

Anne started to her feet, and gazed wildly round the cabin. 

“Hush! There—was no other child. I—was—dreaming.” 

Then, with a sob and a cry, she fell fainting to the floor. 

“Poor creature, the terror of this wreck has turned her brain,” 
said the stewardess; ‘‘and, indeed, it is not astonishing that it 
should.” ! 

She raised the unhappy Anne, bathed her face and hands, and 
laid her in her berth. Then, when she opened her eyes, and seemed 
returning to consciousness, she covered her carefully, and hurried 
away with the telegram. 

Next day the Sultana steamed into Gravesend. A tall, broad- 
thouldered man of about fifty, with a kindly anxious face, stood upon 
the wharf, and immediately the gangway was lowered, he sprang on 
to it, and made his way on board the steamer. 

‘Where is Anne Dane?” he asked at the door of the saloon. 


174 The Ivish Monthly. ' 


‘- Here, sir, here.” 

And a woman, as white as death and trembling in every limb, 
staggered forward and placed a lovely little girl infhis arms. 

“ My Sylvia, my sweet little pet,” he cried with emotion, and 
pressing the child to his heart he covered her with kisses. “Welcome, 
my darling—a hundred times welcome.” 

Then turning to Anne, he shook her warmly by the hand. 

“Thank you, thank you for your love and care. In the midst of 
dangers and shipwreck you have not forgotten my little one. I shall 
never forget your goodness, never. Come, your troubles are at an end. 
You shall live with and nurse my pretty Sylvia as long as she requires 
you; and then—well then you may do what you please—live as you 
like; I will always look after you and give you all you may require. 
God bless you, and thank you.” 

Anne could not speak for emotion. She was touched by Sir 
Kustace’s kindness, and longed to tell him the trouble. But she dared 
not do so. It would be risking too much. So, she said nothing, and 
followed him quietly on shore; and thus she and the orphaned Dora 
found a comfortable home. 





CHAPTER V. 
CAST UP BY THE SEA. 


Meanwhile, Madge and Sylvia were suffering sadly. They clung 
together sobbing and shivering. The fog was damp and cold, and 
they were thinly clad. Madye, always unselfish, pressed the little: 
one to her breast, and covered her with her ulster. In the dreadful 
darkness that surrounded them, she knew not which of the children 
she heldin herarms. But it mattered little which—she loved them both, 
and felt certain that the other was somewhere near with Anne Dane. 
The idea of the boats being separated and their inmates losing each 
other, never entered her head. She was stunned, dazed with misery, 
and thought not of the future. 

For many long hours they pitched about upon the sea. It was cold 
and dark. No friendly sail came-near them through the night. A 
barrel of biscuits and a keg of water was all they had to keep them 
alive ; and they were probably miles and miles from land. The sailors. 
cursed and swore and quarrelled amongst themselves, and poor Madge’s 
heart was sick within her as she listened. Then by degrees she began 
to realize the sad fate that was hers—the utter desolation that had 
fallen upon her, her mother dead, her father swept away to a watery 
grave, and she left alone to face the cruel world or perish of cold and 











A. Striking Contrast. 175 


hunger, with a baby in her arms—a fair, delicate baby. For as the 
morning dawned she saw it was not her sister she held to her heart, 
but Sylvia Atherstone. With the morning light their misery became 
more intense. A gale sprang up, the fog cleared away, and the 
sea, that had been socalm, grew suddenly wild and tempestuous. The 
frail bark was tossed unmercifully from side to side. Waves broke 
over her and filled her with water. Then it seemed as though all was 
over—as though all must perish. Someone flung a life-belt over 
Madge’s head, and in a moment she was struggling for life in the midst 
of the angry billows. 

That day, at noon, two ladies sat on the beach at a little sea-side 
place some miles from Plymouth. They were old and thin, with care- 
worn faces that spoke of much suffering and great anxiety. 

“Well, sister,” said she who from a certain air of command seemed 
to be the elder of the two, ‘‘ there is only one way out of our difficulty. 
We can no longer do the work ourselves and attend to our shop. Since 
that sad hour when we heard that we had lost our fortunes through 
the dishonesty of our guardians, and came to eke out an existence in 
this lonely village, I have not felt so weak and incapable; you too 
are failing in health; and so the one thing certain is, we must take 
a servant.” 

“TI suppose so, Matilda,” replied her sistersighing. ‘But where 
shall we get one for the money we can offer? The maids about here 
ask such exorbitant wages.” | 

“So they do, dear. But we must wait and watch. Who knows— 
something may turn up.” 

This was always Miss Matilda’s cry no matter what happened, no 
matter what went wrong—something would surely turn up. And so 
these two kind-hearted maidens had gone through life, living on little, 
pinching and screwing, always hoping that something would turn up: 
that their squandered fortune—squandered by wicked and dishonest 
guardians—might one day be restored to them, or that they by their own 
own efforts should become rich and prosperous. But in spite of their 
industry and attention to their shop things did not not mend, nothing 
of any consequence ever turned up; and now as they grew too old and 
feeble for their work, they were ag poor and unsuccessful as on the 
first day when they had taken up their abode in the little village by 
the sea. 

‘Let us go home, Barbara,” said Matilda after a time. ‘It is 
dinner-hour, and some of the villagers may come round to the shop.” 

Barbara sighed, but rose immediately. ‘‘It is so refreshing here, 
Matty. The sea looks grand to-day.” 

“Grand. Yes; but dangerous. Think of the ships and—— 


176 The Irish Monthly. 


But what is that?” she cried in sudden excitement. ‘‘ What are 
those men carrying? Bab, Bab! It is someone who has been 
drowned. Who can it be?” 

The fishermen laid down their burden as Miss Matilda pressed. 
forward to question them. 

“Tig a little lass, Ma’am,” said one, drawing down the cloth that 
covered the girl. ‘A little lass, with a baby in her arms.” 

‘‘ Poor child! Is she dead?” 

‘“No, no. The life’s in her yet.” 

‘‘Then, why do you waste time in restoring her? Bring her into 
our house. Carry her in at once. Come, you can lay her on my 
bed.” 

“You are a good woman, Miss Matilda. God will reward you.” 

“Come; waste no time.” 

The men raised the stretcher and followed the old lady into the 
cottage. The bed was warmed, restoratives applied, and in a short 
time Madge and Sylvia were sleeping peacefully, whilst Miss Matilda 
watched beside them with loving anxiety. 

i“ Matilda,” whispered Barbara, stealing up to the bed-side and 
gazing at the children in alarm, “it was foolish to take them in. 
We are poor. How can we feed and clothe these unfortunate waifs?” 

Miss Matilda raised her eyes towards heaven. A beautiful smile 
played round the corners of her mouth, and illumined her withered 
countenance. 

“ God sent them to us,” she said simply. ‘‘I am glad; happy to 
shelter them and save them from starvation—or the workhouse. We 
are poor, as you say; but believe me, sister, God is good—something 
will surely turn up.” 


CHAPTER VI. 
A CRUEL SEPARATION. 


In afew days Madge was herself again. The damp night air, 
the terrors of shipwreck, and the cruel struggle with thefangry waves, 
had done her but small injury. The old ladies who had so kindly 
taken her in, treated her with such tender care and consideration, 
that in a short time she was once more restored to her usual health 
and strength. But poor little Sylvia drooped and pined. The cold 
and fatigue, the long exposure she had endured, had shaken her 
delicate frame and left her very fragile. The child grew pale and 


A Striking Contrast. 177 


thin; all her energy seemed gone; and she would lie for hours 
together on her bed without word or movement. 

Madge was distracted with grief. Sylvia was all she had in the 
world to love, and the thought that she too might die, and leave her, 
was anguish. She watched her night and day. All her time was 
spent by her bedside; all her prayers were for her recovery. 

Then, by degrees, Sylvia grew brighter, and when the sun shone 
and the air felt warm and balmy, Madge would wrap her up carefully, 
and carry her down to the beach. Here they would sit the best part - 
of the day—Sylvia sleeping or playing with shells, Madge reading, 
or thinking sadly over their unhappy fate. 

One day, about six months after their rescue from the waves, 
Madge sat as usual amougst the rocks with Sylvia on her knee. The 
child had improved of late. She had still a white, pinched look about 
her little face. Her form was slight, her back weak, her shoulders 
round. But her eyes were bright, and her lips wreathed with smiles, 
as she looked up at Madge, and listened to her sweet low song. 

Miss Barbara suddenly appeared at the cottage door, and shading 
her eyes with her hand, gazed down towards the beach. 

“Here they are,” she said. “I must speak to Madge at once. It 
will be a blow to the child. But what can we do?” 

She picked her way across thestones, and coming behind Madge, 
touched her on the shoulder. 

She first started and looked round. Then, seeing who was there, 
moved a little, and made room for the old lady beside her on the 
rock, 

“Sylvia is better to-day,” she said brightly. ‘‘See, Miss Bar- 
bara, she looks quite gay.” 

“So she does. And I am delighted to see the change. It will 
make it more easy for you to part with her.”’ 

“Part with her? Oh, Miss Barbara—I—why ? ”—— 

“ My dear child,” answered the lady kindly, ‘‘something must be 
done. We cannot go on as we have been doing any longer. We 
cannot, indeed.” ' 

“ But—but parting with baby. What difference can that mako ?” 

“This. And you must not be vexed, child. It is necessity that 
forces me to speak. There will be one less to feed, and you will have 
time to work.” 

Madge flushed hotly, and turned away her head. But presently 
she looked round again. Her eyes were full of tears. ‘‘I have been 
very thoughtless—very selfish,” she cried. ‘‘ But, indeed, from this 
hour I will work hard. Only—please—please don’t send Sylvia 


away.” 


178 The Trish Monthly. 


“ My dear, we must, and believe me it will be for your good and 
hers.” . 

“ Oh, how— how?” sobbed Madge. 

‘(In this way. You will be able to work and earn your bread, 
and at the same time educate yourself, whilst she will be happy and 
well taken care of.” 

“ But where is she to go?” 

é To the Orphanage at Plymouth.” 

Madge gasped. 

‘‘To the Orphanage. Oh, Miss Barbara.” 

“ Well, dear, it is all we can do for her. And it is only through 
the kind influence of the Squire’s wife that we can manage even that. 
You tell us the child belongs to rich people—that her grandfather is 
wealthy, but your information is vague;.beyond that, and that his 
name is Atherstone, you know nothing. So how are we ever to get 
at him?” | 

‘We must find her grandfather in time.” 

“In time, perhaps. But that may mean years, or never. Adver- 
tisements have been put in the papers. But no notice has been taken. 
And surely if any man were in doubt as to the fate of his grandchild, 
he would have made a fuss, advertised, put detectives on the track, 
and” 

“ He thinks she is dead, I suppose. But one day we shall find him 
out. How J wish I knew his name and address! But papa and Anne 
always spoke of him as Mr. Atherstone’s father, and L never thought 
of asking where he lived. He was in England, that was enough for 
me. But now, Miss Barbara, I'd give the world to know more.” 

“ Yes, it would be a blessing, dear. But now, as you don’t, and 
as we cannot find him, the child must be provided for. So Matilda 
and I have arranged to take her to the Orphanage at once, to-morrow 
or next day.” 

“ Poor little Sylvia, poor little pet.” 

And Madge bent her head and wept bitterly., 

é“ My dear, she is not going to prison. She will be kindly treated, 
and carefully trained. You will be allowed to visit her at certain 
times, and you will be able to take her little things bought out of 
your wages.”’ 

“My wages ?”’ 

“Yes. Sister and I have been thinking that, when the child is 
gone, you would be anxious to earn some money, and so we thought 
you might be our servant. At least, you might help us in our work.” 

“ Dear Miss Barbara, Pll do anything you want,” cried Madge, 
with streaming eyes. ‘‘You and Miss Matilda have been so good to 











A Striking Contrast. «176 


me. I'll work all day—and—and—now—I see my darling must go. 
But, oh, it is hard—so hard, for she is all I have.” 

“Tt is hard, I know, dearest. She has taken the place of father, 
mother, sister,” replied Miss Barbara, gently. ‘‘ But listen, child; if 
you work well in the mornings at our house work, you shall go to 
school in the afternoons. The organist will teach you music, if he 
finds you have talent, and the Squire’s daughter, Miss Tranmore, has 
offered to teach you French. You are a lady born, we see; and we 
are resolved to do all we can to give you a lady’s education. Our 
friends are most generous, and anxious to help us.” 

“You are good, you are good,” murmured Madge. “Miss Bar- 
bara, how can I ever thank you?”’ 

“ By working well, and giving up your little sister as cheerfully 
as you can. And that reminds me, dear, of something I must tell 
you. We all think that baby’s story need not be told at the Orphan- 
age, or in the village. It is useless, and may cause her annoyance as 
she grows older. It is enough to say she is an orphan, without 
mentioning her rich grandfather. For who knows if the authorities 
heard of him, they might refuse to admit her, and then what should 
we do?” 

é Just as you please. I don’t suppose it matters.” 

“ And then this miniature and gold chain. You had better keep: 
them for her till she grows up, and you tell her her story.” 

é Till she grows up? Is my darling to be poor all her life then?” 

“ Probably. I see no chance of anything else.” 

“é Poor little Sylvia !” 

“And, Madge, the Squire's wife thinks Sylvia too grand a name— 
she says we should call the child something more simple.” 

Madge drew the baby to her breast, and kissed her passionately. 

“Very well,” she said. “ We are two lonely, desolate waifs. 
She has taken my sisters place—she shall take my sister’s name. 
That is simple enough, even for a penniless orphan.” 

‘¢ Dora Neil. Yes, that will do admirably.”’ 

Then Miss Barbara bowed her head, and left the children alone. 

The next day Sylvia was carried to Plymouth, and admitted to the 
Orphanage as Madge’s sister, little Dorothy Neil. 





CHAPTER VII. 
A REVELATION. 


After this Madge became invaluable to the two old ladies. At 
noon, every day, she went to the village school; on certain evenings 


180 The Irish Monthly. 


! 


she received music lessons from the organist, and for three hours each 
week she studied French with Miss Tranmore, the Squire’s accom- 
plished daughter. But the rest of her time was devoted to the service 
of her kind benefactors. She made the beds, and swept the floors; 
she cooked the dinner, and washed the plates and dishes—did every- 
thing, in fact, that a maid-of-all-work might do. But Miss Barbara 
helped as much as possible. And so, though often tired and weary, 
the girl was never taxed beyond her strength. 

Madge was clever, and made rapid progress with her studies. 
She was bright, intelligent, and orderly ; and as she grew older and 
stronger, she took upon her the entire management of the cottage and 
its feeble inmates. Her employers began gradually to look to her for 
direction. Whatever she wished was right. Whatever she wanted 
done was done. 

Under her careful arrangement the little shop near the beach 
became more attractive; the stock-in-trade more useful and likely to 
sell. The old ladies themselves seemed to grow younger, instead 
of older, and quite enjoyed papering up the many parcels they were 
called upon to make. For they were doing a good business, and 
tonk more money in a week now than they had done in a month 
before Madge came to live with them. 

And the girl herself was very happy. She led a busy, active life, 
and knew that she was loved by her dear old friends. 

And so the time passed quickly by. And when Madge was twenty, 
tall, strong, and straight, she had but one trouble in the world, and 
that was that she was still forced to leave her sister—her darling 
Dora—in the orphanage. 

True, she saw her often, and Dora seemed well cared for and con- 
tent. But she longed to have the child with her, to surround her with 
the many comforts that love alone can suggest. 

This, however, was impossible; and she tried not to repine. Till 
Dora was old enough to earn her bread some way, it was better she 
should remain where she was; and this fact Madge made the little 
girl understand as soon as she was capable of doing so. 

The events of that awful night, when the children had lost every- 
one and everything belonging to them, rose frequently in poor 
Madge’s mind and filled her with sorrow. 

“If we could only have found my darling’s grandfather, how 
different would have been her lot,” she would think each time she 
left the orphanage. ‘‘’Tis cruel to see her being brought up in such 
a severe school, when she should have every luxury that money could 
buy. However the child, if not actually happy, is content. She 
knows nothing of what might have been—I have spared her that pain; 


A Striking Contrast. | 181 


such knowledge would only unsettle her mind and make her long for 
what she can never have. I have now come to the conclusion that we. 
shall never find either Mr. Atherstone or his father. So, when Dora 
is old enough, she must work for herself.” 

So thought Madge—and so certainly thought the two old ladies,. 
till an incident occurred that changed, all their ideas, and encouraged 
the young girl to undertake the arduous task of finding Sir Eustace 
Atherstone and placing his granddaughter in his arms. 

One afternoon Madge walked along the dusty road leading from 
Plymouth to the little village where she lived. She had been up to- 
Tranmore Court to see the Squire’s daughter, with whom she still read 
French two or three times a week. Miss Tranmore was extremely 
fond of the girl, and very proud of her as a pupil. 

‘IT declare, Madge,” she had said that day, “you are wasting your 
time here. You are too good for your present position. I really 
think you ought to go out as a governess; your music alone would 
insure you getting an excellent place.” 

é“ You are very kind to say so,” replied Madge blushing, “and 
I often wished I could do something of thatkind. But I would not like 
to leave my dear old friends. They are very dependent on me now.” 

“I suppose they are. And I daresay you are right not to desert 
them. But if you ever think of becoming a governess, remember I will 
help you all I can.” 

Madge thanked Miss Tranmore, and took her leave. And as she 
walked home she pondered deeply over her present position and future 
prospects. 

“If by going out as a governess,” she thought, ‘I could earn 
more money and save for Dora, I might—perhaps I ought to go. 
There is little to be done here; and I sometimes weary of this dreary, 
monotonous existence. But yet, I could not be ungrateful. I owe my 
life, my health, and strength to those dear old ladies; and as long as they 
live my time and energies shall be devoted to them. Poor Dora! if 
only I could help her to a better—a more agreeable way of living.” 

Feeling hot and tired after her walk in the sun, Madge wandered 
down on the beach just below the cottage, and, seating herself on a 
rock, gazed out sadly over the calm blue sea. 

é“ How peaceful and still it looks; and yet how cruel—how cruel it 
can be,” she said shuddering. ‘‘Shall I ever—ever forget that terrible 
night? My mother’s sudden death; my poor father’s sinking down— 
almost before my eyes.. Oh, God! My God, how dreadful it was! 
And then to think of that child—the injustice she has suffered. She 
who should have wealth and luxury, she who should have every 
eare and comfort, brought up as a pauper—thrown with common com-. 


182 The Irish Monthly. 


panions; subjected to a treatment which, though not actually cruel or 
severe, is trying to one of her frail constitution.” 

“ Please,” said a sweet voice, “could you tell me the name of 
this stone ?”’ 

Madge looked up, her eyes filled with tears, but could not speak 
fora moment. She was struck-dumb with astonishment. 

Before her stood a dainty little lady of about ten years old. She 
had a beautiful face, large luminous dark eyes, thick chestnut hair, 
that grew in clustering curls round her forehead; a clear, fresh com- 
plexion, and a merry laughing mouth. She was dressed in pure 
white. A broad Leghorn hat and drooping feathers shaded her from 
the sun. Her pretty feet were covered with the neatest of boots; her 
tiny hands in the softest of Swedish gloves. 

Madge was filled with wonder. Such a fairy as this was an un- 
usual sight in Oldport, and she could not imagine where she had 
-come from. Something in the little girl’s expression seemed familiar; 
yet never in her life had she ever seen her before. She was about 
Dora’s height and age, but much more healthy. And, alas! how 
differently attired. And as a vision of that beloved child, clad in her 
coarse orphan’s uniform, rose before Madge, she sighed heavily. 

“You seem sad,” said the little stranger gently. “I am sorry I 
disturbed you.” ° 

“ No, no,” cried Madge, ‘‘ you only startled and surprised me. I 
did not know you were near me till you spoke. What did you ask 
me?” 

‘‘T wanted to know what this stone was called.?? 

Madge smiled. 

é“ I don’t think that is a stone. It is only a piece of glass, or of a 
soda water bottle, probably, that has been knocked about in the sea 
and washed over the stones and rocks till it has got worn into that 
shape.” 

‘‘Really. That's very curious. Thank you very much. I will 
put this amongst my treasures. (Good-bye. I see nurse beckoning to 
me. I must go. May 1 kiss you?” 

And before Madge had time to reply the child stooped and kissed 
her on the lips; then, with a smile and a bow, flitted off over the 
shingle. 

Madge turned to look after her; and just above the beach, on the 
road, she saw a carriage and pair. Close beside it stood an elderly 
woman, waving her hand and calling to the little girl. 

“ Miss Sylvia, we are late. Come quickly, please.” 

Madge grew pale as death, and started to her feet. 

‘Sylvia? What did the woman mean? Why did she call the 
.child by that name ?” 


A Striking Contrast. 183 


“ Miss Sylvia, dear me, do hurry. There is going to be a thunder- 

storm. Quick, quick.’ 

‘Yes, Anne. I’m coming. But Anne, Anne, the stones hurt my 
feet.” 

The woman stepped down upon the beach, and gave the child her 
hand. 

Madge hurried forward, and gazing at the nurse, said faintly— 

“í Are you—can you be Anne Dane? ”’ 

The stranger looked at her in amazement. 

“Yes. Why do you ask ?”’ 

“ Because ’—Madge trembled, and her tongue seemed tied to the 
roof of her mouth ; her voice was low and hoarse, her words indistinct— 
“ Because, if you are Anne Dane who was wrecked in the Cimbria, 
who, or what is that child?” 

Anne became livid, and gazed wildly round. The rain came down 
suddenly in great thick drops. 

é Miss Sylvia,” she cried, “ jump into the carriage—quick.”’. 

The little girl did as she was told. Anne followed her at once, 
and as she closed the door, she said to Madge— 

“JT am Anne Dane. I cannot think why you ask; but I tras 
wrecked in the Cimbria. And this child is Miss Sylvia Atherstone.” 

“ No, no,” shrieked Madge, running towards her with outstretched 
arms, ‘she is not—she cannot be—Sylvia is” 

But she talked to the wind. The carriage had whirled off down 
the road, and she was alone. The rain now fell in torrents, the 
thunder crashed loudly over her head; and, feeling dazed and 
bewildered, she ran on to the cottage. 

That evening Madge could think of nothing but this strange 
meeting. She related all that had happened to the two old ladies, 
and together they talked it over, and wondered what it all meant. 

“Miss Matilda,” said Madge, thoughtfully, “I have had a 
revelation to-day. I now know what I never before suspected. Anne 
Dane was saved from the wreck, and is doing well. That is evident, 
and is not, after all, so very wonderful. But the child—Sylvia—that 
is what I cannot, cannot understand.” 

“ Well, dear,” answered Miss Matilda, ‘‘it is possible that there 
may be another Sylvia Atherstone, daughter of another son. She, of 
course, would be the old gentleman’s grandchild as well as our poor 
darling, and ”’ 

é That is not probable, for she is, I should say, just the same age 
—and—but, oh, Miss Matilda, a wild, a strange idea has taken 
possession of me. Anne has deceived Mr. Atherstone, defrauded the 
real Sylvia of her rights, and put another—a strange child in her place.” 

“My dear Madge. But what child? Who? ”—— 











184 The Irish Monthly. + 


“You know [ told you that my little sister Dora was the same age 
as Sylvia 2” 

‘Yes. But she was drowned, remember.”’ 

“How do we know? We thought Anne Dane was drowned, but 
she’s not.” 

“Then you think ” . 

“TI think, I believe,” cried Madge in great excitement, “that 
Dora was not drowned, but that Anne and she were saved together ; 
and that this child, this pretty little girl I saw with her to-day, is no 
other than my sister, Dora Neil.” 

é“ Dear, dear,” cried Miss Barbara, “what a strangeidea! But how 
can we prove such a thing, even if we knew where to find these people ?”” 

Madge paced restlessly up and down the little parlour. 

‘‘ How, indeed? How, indeed?” she murmured. ‘But it shall 
be done. From this hour I shall devote my life, my time, my 
energies, to finding Mr. Atherstone, and proving that he has been 
deceived. My darling Sylvia shall be restored to her rights. Justice 
shall be done, and ”— 

é“ That, will be a difficult task, dear,” said Miss Matilda. ‘And 
how, living in this small, quiet place, are you to accomplish it ?” 

‘‘T shall leave this quiet place. Go” 

Miss Matilda Jay back in her chair, and burst into tears. 

“Will you leave us, Madge? Leave us, who love you, to run 
over the world after such a shadow?” 

Madge knelt beside the old lady, and putting her arms round her, 
kissed her tenderly. 

“No, dear. I'll never leave you. Do not fret. So long as you 
require me, [ll stay with you here. But 1 know—I feel certain that 
some day or other I must, I will restore my poor darling to her 
proper position in life. The thought that my sister, my pretty 
innocent Dora, is usurping her place and defrauding her of her rights 
is bitter—very bitter to me.” 

“ But you are not quite certain that it is so, dear. Do not worry 
about it, and something will surely turn up.” 

The young girl smiled, and pressed Miss Matilda’s hand. 

é“ That is not the plan I go on, generally. I am not fond of wait- 
ing for something to turn up. But I must be content to do so now. 
My first duty is to you and Miss Barbara. Therefore we must forget 
this strange episode, and go on as if it had never happened.” 

Miss Matilda dried her eyes, and looked lovingly at Madge. 

é“ God bless you, darling. Your words relieve me greatly. I 
thought you were going to leave us, and I felt sad and sick at heart 
You are the one bright spot in our lives, Madge. Without you we 
should die.” 











A Striking Contrast. 185 


CHAPTER VIII. 
A VOICE FROM THE WILDERNESS. 


Madge was true to her word. She talked no more of leaving Old- 
port, and life in the cottage went on as before. 

So the long years passed. Spring, summer, autumn, and winter 
ame and went in quick succession, without making any difference to 
Madge. But she never forgot that strange meeting on the beach, 
and fondly imagined that some day or other she would see Anne Dane 
an that very spot once more. Two or three times a week she would 
go and sit upon the self-same rock, hoping to see the child Sylvia 
coming towards her over the stones. 

‘‘Perhaps I may meet her to-day,’ she would say. ‘Then I 
shall question her closely and find out the true state of the case.” 

But every visit was a fresh disappointment. Neither nurse nor 
child ever appeared upon the beach again, and Madge was as far as 
ever from discovering the truth. 

At last, despairing of ever meeting them, Madge made one more 
effort. She wrote out a long advertisement, calling upon Anne Dane 
to do justice to her master’s child, and imploring her to communicate 
with M.N., Oldport, near Plymouth. This she sent to the TZimes, 
paying for it out of her savings. For days, weeks, months, she 
watched eagerly for an answer. But, alas, none came. Stealing 
away from her work to the newsvendor’s, where she was allowed a 
peep at the supplement by the good-natured woman who kept the 
shop, Madge would search anxiously for some sign that her advertise- 
ment had been seen. This went on for two years, and then the girl 
lost heart and resigned herself to the inevitable. 

“ITÉ only I were rich,” she would say, “I might discover this 
woman, and punish her for her treachery. As it is, I am utterly 
powerless.” 

One evening Madge stood at the cottage door, silently weeping. 
Kind-hearted Miss Matilda was ill, and as the girl came out from 
the sick-room, and gazed across the sea, her heart was heavy, her 
thoughts full of sadness. The old lady was dying. So the doctors 
said. And after fourteen years spent in her service—fourteen years 
during which she had been treated with much tenderness, Madge was 
overwhelmed with grief as she saw the gentle friend fade slowly, but 
surely, to the grave. 

“Dear Miss Matilda,’’ she murmured, whilst tears filled her eyes, 
and ran unheeded down her cheeks, “but for you where should I be 

Vou. xvur. No. 202, 62 


ee 


186 The Irish Monthly. 


to-day—I and—my poor Dora ?—and now you are going to leave us.” 
And bowing her head the girl sobbed aloud. 

“Madge.” A pair of arms stole about her neck, and a little face, 
surrounded with a halo of short golden curls, was laid fondly against: 
her breast. ‘‘ You must not weep, dearest. Miss Matilda is happier 
than we are.” . 

“ Why, darling?” And Madge clasped the speaker tightly in 
her arms. 

“ Because she is leaving this weary world, and going home to 
God. She looks so happy, so peaceful, since she received the last 
sacraments, I am sure she is going straight to heaven. Oh, Madge, 
Madge, what a happiness it would be to go in her place—or with her.” 

“ But, Dora, you are not unhappy, love ?”’ 

“Not now, Madge. Not when I am with you.” 

Madge sighed, and kissed the girl passionately. 

‘‘ Would that I could keep you always, pet. And, perhaps, soon 
I may be able to do so.” 

_“T could work, dear. I am small and thin. But I can sew 
beautifully.” And, with a shudder, ‘I do so hate the orphanage.”’ 

“ But they are not unkind to you there? ” 

é No, not exactly; but they are reugh and rude. And you see I 
am not like the'others, Madge.” 

“ No, dearest, not at all like.”’ 

é They are, for the most part, big, healthy girls, strong and tall, 
and well made, whilst I,’-——and the poor child hid her blushing 
face. ‘‘I—oh, Madge, I am deformed.”’ 

“ My darling, who told you so?” 

‘The girls, They laugh at me and call me humpy.”’ 

“What a shame!” cried Madge, with flaming cheeks. ‘‘ But do- 
not mind them, darling; it is not true. You are small and fragile. 
Your shoulders are a little round because you are weak. That cruel 
shipwreck injured your poor spine; but the doctor says if you could 
lie you would outgrow it and become as straight as anyone. That 
night upon the sea was—nearly killed you, my delicate child; and. 
80 7 

But Madge could say no more. The sight of those appealing eyes, . 
the sad spectacle of Dora’s thin, bent little frame, was more than she 
could bear, and she sobbed bitterly. 

“Even you, with all your love, cannot deceive me,” said Dora sadlv. 
éI know I am not like other girls. I used not to mind it so muci. 
But now, since you told me who I am—since I have heard what I 
ought to be, everything seems harder. I know it is God’s will, and 
I try to bear it; but still ’?—— 











A Striking Contrast, 187 


“ Oh, Dora, Dora, I would die to make you happy. But what can 
Ido?” And Madge pressed the girl to her heart. 

“ Let me stay with you,” pleaded Dora. ‘Do not send me back 
to the orphanage.” 

“ My darling, if it lay with me, I would never part with you again. 
But you see our poor old friends.” 

‘‘ Are we quite dependent on them ?”’ 

‘‘Quite. We have not a penny in the world except what they give 


us.” 


“But you work well for them, Madge—sweepiny and dusting and 
cooking, when you are fit for much better things. The matron says 
you are very well educated, and that you are wasting your time here. 
She says you ought to go out as a governess.” 

** Dora,” said Madge gravely, ‘I am not wasting my time. I do 
work fur my dear friends; but that is because I think it right. They 
were good to me in my childhood—they took me in when I was 
rescued an ppy waif from the sea, and loved and cared for me 
all these yedrs. Therefore, I cannot—I must not desert them iu their 
old age. Were it not so—had I not this sacred duty to perform, I 
should certainly be out in the world seeking for some trace of that 
eruel, deceitful woman who has robbed you, my pet, of your birth- 
right.” 

“ But she does not know I am alive, perhaps. Do not be too hard 
on her, Madge.” 

‘She must know. I feel she knows. There was guilt in her face 
that day on the beach. If she had nothing to fear, Dora, why did she 
not speak to me? Why did she hurry the child away? She knows, 
or for some reason dreads to know, that you are alive. But some 
day—some happy day, she shall be unmasked, and you, my pet, shall 
be rich and ’’—— 

“I don’t want to be rich, Madge. I only want to be with you. 
And—and—this fine rich gentleman, my grandfather, would not care 
to acknowledge a poor little creature brought up in an orphanage as 
his granddaughter. I am sure he would not.” 

“But he must. He shall,” cried Madge fiercely. ‘If only I 
could find him—if only I could find him. But I am tied here, Dora, 
and know not what to do.” 

“Do nothing, dearest. Forget the whole affair. Forget that such 
persons as Anne Dane and these Atherstones exist; and let us consider 
what we can do to earn money and be independent. I am nearly six- 
teen, Madge; and I long—I cannot tell you how much—to leave the 

1? 


“I will speak to Miss Barbara in a day or two. For the present, 


SIN 


188 The Irish Monthly. 


whilst Miss Matilda is ill, you are useful, and she likes to have you. 
She sent for you, Dora—I would not have dared to do so, my darling.” “ 

“TI shall go up to the Court to-morrow morning, and ask Miss 
Tranmore for some work. I can sew beautifully, Madge; and I 
intend to be a dressmaker.” . 

“ Poor little Dora—poor little Dora,” murmured Madge, ‘‘ how 
different—how different should have been your fate.” 

“You must not complain, Madge; God has, after all, been very 
good to us. He gave us kind friends; for although poor, our dear 
old ladies have loved and watched over us well. 

“You have a sweet loving nature, my darling,” cried Madge, 
drawing the girl towards her and kissing her tenderly. ‘‘ You are 
always good and patient. But I fear your life at the orphanage has 
not been a happy one.” 

“Yet not unhappy. Had I been—well, stronger’’— Dora blushed 
deeply—“ and a little rougher, I would surely have got on better. 
' Still, dear, I was never unkindly treated.” 

‘Yet you long to leave the place, even at the risk of wanting 
much and working hard. Oh, Dora, Dora, you have suffered much. 
But believe me, dearest, I was powerless to prevent it.” 

“Of course. I know that well, my darling sister,” said Dora 
caressingly. ‘And now that I am almost a woman, I feel I must work 
and do what I can for myself. So if you will allow me, I’ll stay with 
you here, and seek work in the village.” 

“You shall do so if I can manage it, dearest; and I know our 
friends will keep youif they can. Miss Tranmore would help you too. 

However, we shall see. I must go in now, Dora; Miss Matilda may 
be awake, perhaps.” 

é“ Yes, she has slept long this afternoon. But stay for a moment, 
Madge. There comes the postman—he may have something for you.” 

“I think not, dear,” said Madge smiling. ‘‘A letter for me is an 

- unheard of event. We are utterly friendless, you and I, Dora; out- 
side this small village there is not a creature knows of our very 
existence.” | - 

‘Then Anne Dane is not the cruel hard-hearted woman you some- 
times make her out,” said Dora roguishly. ‘If she doesn’t know ””—— 

‘(Anne Dane. I forgot her for the moment. But she does not 
care to remember. In fact” 

“ A letter for Miss Madge Neil,” said the postman, ‘‘a registered 
letter. So, please to sign this paper.” 

, Then, as the girl complied with his request, he touched his hat, 
smiled at the look of surprise on her face, and bidding her “good 
evening,” passed on. 














A Striking Contrast. 189 


Madge stared at the address, and turned the letter round. 

‘‘Who can it be from ?” whispered Dora. 

‘‘T don’t know, dear. I cannot think.” 

“ Perhaps it is a mistake?” 
. No, dear,” replied Madge, slowly, “it must be for me. See, it 
has my name in full. It cannot be a mistake.” 

‘‘ Then look at it, Madge. Quick. I am lenging to know what it 
is about.”’ 

Madge tore open the envelope, and a cry escaped her lips. 

Within the packet were Bank of England notes—five crisp ten- 
pound notes, and round them was a sheet of paper, on which was 
written : 

‘To Madge Neil, from one who wishes her well in life.” 

The young girl flushed hotly; then grew suddenly white as 
marble. 

“It is from Anne Dane,” she cried, with trembling lips. ‘‘ She 
has seen my advertisement. She knows nuw—has known for years, 
that you live.” 

“ But, Madge, perhaps it is not from her. How” 

“My dear, it must be from her. She is the only creature in the 
world, outside this village, who ever heard of Madge Neil. She must 
have seen my last advertisement in the Zimes. She is stricken with 
remorse ; but alas! alas! it only makes her after all these years send 
alittle money. If she had but given her address! Would that she 
had—would that she had.” | 

‘‘This comes from London, Madge,” said Dora, examining the 
post mark. ‘‘She lives in London, perhaps.” 

‘‘A voice from the wilderness,” said Madge dreamingly, os she 
took the envelope; “ from the wilderness, but still distinctly a voice— 
for this small indication will be a help, a small ray of light, dear, that 
may aid us to discover her. Some day, as soon as I am free, we shall 
go to London, and with God's assistance we shall find this woman-and 
restore you to your home and friends.” 

“If you are determined to do sv, it shall be done,” cried Dora, 
clinging to Madge and laying her head upon her breast. ‘But, 
indeed, darling, 1 want no other friends than you. They would all be 
strangers to me, and I hate strangers.” 

‘* Poor little girl,” said Madge gently, smoothing the golden hair, 
“ poor little tender-hearted darling. But one thing is certain now, 
pet. You need not return tc the orphanage. This money makes that 
quite unnecessary.” 

“Oh, Madge, what joy,” cried Dora rapturously. ‘I positively 
love Anne Dane. Her muuey has made me happier than I have ever 





190 The Irish Monthly. 


been before. To live with you has been the dream of my life. This 
cottage always seemed a small paradise to me. So, Madge, Madge, 
Anne Dane is my benefactor after all.” And Dora’s sweet silvery 
laughter rang out on the evening air. 

“TIT am thankful to her for having made you happy, darling,” 
answered Madge gravely. ‘‘ But, oh, the years of happiness she has 
robbed you of.” 

“Do not be unjust, dearest. It has not been altogether her fault, 
remember.” 

“ Of course not. She did not cause the shipwreck, or our separa- 
tion in the boats. However, some day we shall know all. Come 
now, dear, and see if Miss Matilda still sleeps.” 

And Madge kissed little Dora’s earnest, pleading lips, and drew 
her into the cottage. 

(Zo be continued.) 


LINES BY ST. PRUDENTIUS. 


St. Prudentius, who has been called by Bentley ‘the Christian 
Horace,” was born in Spain in 348, but he did not exercise or, per- 
haps, discover his poetical gifts until he was over fifty. He had been 
a great barrister, and held high military command. He dedicated 
his latter years to the defence of Christianity and the glory of the 
martyrs. The following stanzas are the last of a long hymn to the 


martyr, St. Eulalia :— 
Carpite purpureas violas, 
Sanguineosque crocos metite ; 
Non caret his genialis hyems, 
Laxat et arva tepens glacies 
Floribus ut cumulet calathos. 


Ista comantibus e foliis 
Munera virgo puerque date ; 
Ast ego serta, choro in medio, 
Texta feram pede dactylo, 
Vilia, marcida, festa tamen. 


Sic venerarier ossa libet, 
Ossibus altare et impositum ; 
Illa, Dei aita sub pedibus, 
Prospicit heec, populosque suos 
Carmine propitiata fovet. 


In your teeming baskets bring 
Flow’rets of the early spring, 
While the thaw unbinds the fields, 
And the genial winter yields 
Blood-red crocuses to view, 
Mingled with the violets blue. 


But, while youths and maidens vie 
Wreaths of blooming flowers to tie, 
I, amid the joyous throng, 

Will present my wreath of song ; 
Poor and withered it may be, 

Yet a festive gift for me. 


While we thus with nature’s bloom 
Deck her bones and altar-tomb, 
She, beneath the feet of God, 
Guards the land that once she trod, 
Pleased our simple faith to see, 
Gladdoned by our melody. 

T. E. B. 








“ Russian” Field. - 191 


“RUSSIAN” FIELD. 


WHEN Browning, in more than one memorable passage, 

described music, he did it as much with the exactness and 
knowledge of a musician as the inspiration of a poet. And, on 
the other hand, in many of Schumann’s critiques we have as fine 
an enthusiasm of the poet as an estimate and precision of a com- 
poser. But in his well known description of a Chopin Nocturne 
Arthur O’Shaughnessy conveyed rather the effect produced than 
the essence of the thing. His attempt to embody emotions 
awakened by a fascinating musical form, in which, to use Shelley’s 
line, “music and moonlight and feeling are one,” was clever. By 
a reverie full of poetic vistas, he produced something of the fan- 
tastic imagery of a Nocturne, at once wistful and wayward; seizing 
its evanescent ideas of beauty and evolving from its cadences a 
thought or an emblem. In a dream, picturesque in suggestion, he 
wove an arabesque of fancy, delicate as frost-work carved in ivory ; 
fixing in words an illusion of delight, or subtly transfiguring 
emotion into metaphor. A refined poem was the result, a poem of © 
colour, perfume, some witchery, and even ecstasy.* 

But as reflex of a Nocturne the colour is not glowing, the per- 
fame too little sensuous, the witchery not weird, the ecstasy too 
calm. Neither Chopin’s enigmatic interweaving of languor and 
frenzy, nor his tenderness of repose and restlessness of unfulfilled 
desire: neither the pathos of his yearning nor the ardour of his 
appeal are brought near to us in the poem. O’Shaughnessy missed 
that touch of the impassioned joy in Love of Clarchen’s song in 
Egmont, and the full-hearted anguish of Gretchen in Faust, which 
are ever present in true Nocturnes. Nor did he compass Chopin’s 
masterful penetrating melancholy, fraught with a reckless vivacity 
unequalled in poetry or music, save in the Sonatas of Beethoven. 


e “Music and Moonlight’’ contains an exquisite allegory of perfect fulfilment 
and immortality, under the symbol of the phoenix and the aloe. It has been objected 
that myrrh more correctly symbolises the Bird-bride than an aloe. It would have 
been truer to the Arabic fable, but sacrificed half the fable. O’Shaughnessy wished 
t» declare, not only the immortality of Chopin’s fame, but also the perfection to 
which he had brought the Nocturne. To present these two ideas he grafted, op 
ithe Arabic, an African myth in which the aloe is an emblem of this consummeson. 


' 192 The Irish Monthly. 


Perhaps few who have been moved by the enchantment with 
which Prince Karol won and lost Lucrezia Floriani,* remember 
that the form which Chopin elaborated, with the deep art of a con- 
summate musician, he owed to the child of a brutal father, the 
pupil of a rapacious master, the victim of a cruel misery—to an 
Irishman whose home was Russia. . 

“ One thousand eight hundred and eleven was a comet year; one- 
thousand eight hundred and eleven was the cradle year of many 
great men of Europe; it re-echoed with the sounds of Lyre and 
Sword, and announced pioneering spirits to the future. This year 
appears in the history of European spirit-life rich with promised. 
splendour. One thousand eight hundred and eleven was the fatal 
year of Franz Liszt.” t 

The birth of John Field was brought about, it would appear, 
without aid of either comets or cradle years, nor any special over-. 
flow of a spirit-life’s bespeaking splendour. Rather was it like 
unto that of a great musician and piquant writer: “ Pendant les. 
mois qui précédérent ma naijssance, ma mére me réva: point, comme- 
celle de Virgile, qu’elle allait mettre au monde un rameau de laurier 
Quelque douloureux que soit cet aveu pour mon amour-propre, je- 
dois ajouter qu’elle ne crut pas non plus, comme Olympies, mére- 
d’Alexandre, porta dans son sein un tison ardent. Cela est fort 
extraordinaire, j’en conviens, mais cela est vrai. Je vis le jour 
tout simplement, sans aucun des signes précurseurs en usage dans. 
les temps po¢tiques, pour annoncer la venue des prédestinée de la 
gloire. Serait-ce que notre époque manque de poésie ?’’t 

In such wise, modestly, John Field, on the 26th July, 1782,. 
put in a personal claim on the earnings of a Dublin violinist, him- 
self the son of a church organist. They were a family of musical 
traditions, and the prospect of a prodigy which John’s early talent 
foreshadowed determined the parents to push possibilities to the 
utmost. The grandfather took the child in hand for teaching, the- 
father mounting guard over practice. The practising was rigorous,. 
continuous, exhausting; the lessons incessant, prolonged, and 
severe. Rebellion only intensified the exactions, until the lad put 


* George Sands’ study of jealousy ; into which it may not be impertinent to read. 
Chopin in Prince Karol, the Abbé Liszt in Albani, and the lady herself in Luorezia.. 


t Ramann: Life of Liszt, vol. 1, p. 1. 
~ Berlioz: Mémoires, vol. 1, p. 1. 











“ Russian” Field, 193 


into concrete form the witty Frenchman’s description of a Fugue.* 
As he told Fétis, later in life, harsh treatment drove him from 
home. But starvation drove him back both to home and practice,. 
with the result that at twelve years of age he made his first 
appearance in London. His father had accepted an engagement 
at the Haymarket Theatre, and brought his son with him. 

Since 1770 the piano had gradually been displacing the harpsi-. 
chord in public regard: a supersession completed by the teaching 
of Clementi, whom Beckford had brought over from Italy. His 
compositions gave the new taste a fashion, to which his lessons 
added a solid basis. These were largely attended, his instructions 
widely studied, and, with Beethoven’s piano compositions, firmly 
established a repute for this instrument which Ohopin and Schu- 
mann had only to intensify. 

To Clementi, therefore, Field was consigned, his father paying 
a hundred guineas as premium—a sum, we would think, entailing 
generous sacrifice upon him. In 1799 the boy again appeared 
before a London audience playing a concerto of his own composition,,. 
which quickly became very much sought after. But the value of 
his studies and the gifts he brought to bear on them can be better 
gauged by his success in Paris, where Clementi took him in 1802. 
There his playing of Handel’s and Bach’s Fugues created quite an 
enthusiasm for its brilliancy and finish, and established his favour 
with an audience neither quick in its sympathies, nor indulgent in 
its esteem ; particularly when it is remembered that at this time 
Field was anything but engaging in appearance, being over-grown, 
unrefined, and “gauche” in the extreme; and, too, without that 
musical consecration which we have heard “Le petit Liszt ’” 
received from Beethoven.t 

They then went into Germany, Clementi being everywhere. 
proud of showing off “ his favourite pupil”; until meeting Albrechts- 
berger, he determined to leave Field to study counterpoint with 
him, proceeding himself to St. Petersburgh. But the Irish lad, 
with tears in his eyes besought his master to take him also. It is 
‘diffeult to say whether this arose from affection for his teacher or- 


* ‘* A Fugue is a composition in which one tone rushes out before the other, and 
the listener first of all.” 

t Ramann: vol. 1, p. 75. 

1 Clementi was the teacher of Cramer, L. Berger, Kalkbrenner, and Meyerbeer.. 


194 ‘The Irish Monthly. 


from a sensitive lad’s dread of being alone in a foreign capital whose 
language he did not, know: In any case, once settled in St. Peters- 
burgh, Clementi seems to have treated him less as a pupil’than as 
# musical automaton to show off the value of instruments in the 
shop he had opened. And at this hack work he was made a drudge 
rather than a servant. The shrinking, dreamy youth was scantily 
clothed, kept indoors for weeks for want of a hat, suffering acutely 
through the Russian winter for want of a top-coat, which Clementi 
would not buy him. And this while he was receiving large sums 
for duties he left Field to fulfil. 

We would gladly escape belief in this, yet Spohr, in his Sells- 
biog,* is unmistakable. Speaking of 1802-3: “ I have a recollection 
of the figure of the pale overgrown lad . . . who had out-run his 
clothes. . . At the piano he stretched his arms over the key- 
board, till the sleeves shrunk up to his elbows, his whole attitude 
awkward and stiff in the highest degree; but, as soon as his touch- 
ing instrumentation began, everything else was forgotten and we 
became all ear. Unhappily I could not express my emotion and 
thankfulness otherwise than by a silent pressure of the hand, for he 
spoke no other language than his own.”. And after this Spohr 
happened upon teacher and pupil, with upturned sleeves, toiling at 
‘the washing tub, scrubbing stockings and other linen; an occasion 
‘Clementi improved by exhorting the violinist to do likewise for its 
economy and saving of the material. 

Where was even the flow of the ill-favoured lad’s “ spirit life” 
in such surroundings? What suppleness did the wrists acquire in 
‘this numbing cold ; what sensitiveness of touch his fingers gain in 
a scrubbing-tub ? What artistic insight could he gather from be- 
labouring out such an Italian’s idea of economy? Yet the genius 
of Field burst the trammels of these days. During Clementi’s 
absence in England, the young player showed he had talents that 
would not be hidden, insomuch that on his return in 1804 the 
master found his pupil had already become a teacher. 

The long years of training were at an end; but only at the 
beginning were the spirits of reckless emancipation and bitter’ 
¢ynicism they left in trail. 

His lessons brought him money; his playing fame; but of 
neither the one nor the other had he been fitted to appraise the value 


* Vol. 1, p. 43. 








“ Russian ” Feld. 195 


His success became rapid, the rewards brilliant and easily seized, 
uatil from about 1806 to 1823 he felt the golden ground beneath 
his feet was solid, and stood without a rival in the Russian capital. 

Though from Clementi he had the secret of exquisite legato 
playing, a fine delicacy of touch and an unfailing certainty in rapid 
executions, neither the system of education he underwent nor his 
natural aptitude fitted him for the larger forms of musical expres- 
sion. Indeed, he seemed rather to breathe upon the notes than 
finger them, even when playing with a strength that left his 
nuances clearly defined. His variety of modificition was unlimited, 
and his resources of embellishment exhaustless. To this technical 
perfection he added a poetic enthusiasm which, united to a dreamy 
melancholy, compelled a fascination pre-eminently his own. He 
led one, in the words of Heine, into “a dreamland of poesy where 
the interpreters of visions dwell.” Thus Field made for himself a 
style no less than Clementi had done, but of a different order. In 
the latter it was of intellectual pleasure in musical thought—clear, 
regular, correct; in the former it was a style of dainty delight in 
sensuous emotion—vivid, sensitive, seducing : a union of tenderness, 
poetry, and charm. The fullest expression of this he poured forth 
in his Nocturnes, some dozen of which even Chopin will never 
quite obscure. Though a pianist more than a composer, yet these 
delicious reveries will quicken the memory of him when Ifis sonatas 
and even his concertos fall into unmerited neglect. The latter were 
eminently popular during Field’s lifetime, and of the seventh 
Schumann wrote in his Neue Zeitschrift: “ We are delighted with 
it ; can do nothing more reasonable than praise it endlessly. . . . 
I would allow this artist to cover my eyes and bind my hands, and 
would say nothing, save that I choose to follow him blindly. . . . 
Above all, thou last movement, in thy divine tedium, thy charm, 
thy delightful awkwardness, thy soulful beauty, bewitching enough 
to kiss from beginning to end.” 

But there were ashes in the cup wealth held to his lips, thorns in 
the rose-crown fame pressed upon his head. Renown and luxury 
were at command ; the intellect of the capital crowded his concerts, 
its beauty thronged his rooms, as a vampire sucked deadly at his 
heart’s-blood. Drink marred and sloth ruined the fair fulfilment. 
At the pinnacle of his ambition he cast his genius to the winds, his 
wealth to harpies who made his generosity a crime. For a 
time his fame withstood the shock of his dissoluteness. It 





196 The Irish Monthly. 


seemed too strong to be shaken, for his pupils waited while 
he drank, and then played while he slept. Suddenly, in 1823, 
he left for Moscow, where again his genius was victorious, 
even more so than in St. Petersburgh. People undertook long 
journeys to hear him play, students, at twenty roubles an hour 

crowding his days and nights for lessons at his hands. Though we 
do not hear of ladies making bracelets of the strings of his pianos, 
as when Liszt’s personality proved as powerful as his music, to be 
a “pupil of Field” was then the rage of young Russia. Still 
firmer and more swiftly the Syren bound her toils about this god 
of the moment. The spirit of reckless emancipation grew fierce. 
_ with every fell excess, till nature proving less lasting than his fame, 
his health broke down, and disease struck him without remorse. 
He had married a Mademoiselle Charpentier, but they were 
separated within a year. Teaching became impossible, friendship 
impracticable, as, neglected by everything but his debts, life lay 
shattered in his grasp. A soured reckless man he turned his steps 
towards home. “Oh! how sad it must be to die in a foreign 
land,” Chopin wrote. 

When after twenty-five years’ absence he reappeared in London, 
Moscheler wrote :—‘ His legato playing delights me, but his 
compositions are not to my taste.* Nothing is in more glaring 
contrast than a Field’s Nocturne and Field’s manners, which are 
often cynical. At a party he drew from his pocket a miniature of 
his wife, with the remark that he had only married her because as. 
his pupil she had never paid him, and he knew she never would.” F 

Thenceforth Field was a wanderer. Leaving London, he went 
to Paris in 1833, the year in which Chopin made his impression in 
private circles there, Paris still vibrating with the demoniac 
powers of Paganini. But the charm of his spell was broken. His 
genius was passing into night with no star to illume it. The 
morning of deeper barmonic utterance, of technical wonders, was 
dawning. Berlioz was girt for the fray with classical formalism, 
in which freedom of form and movement was to be won. With 
all the beauty of his touch and elegance of execution, though his 
music came with his heart between his fingers, Field lacked spirit, 


*It is to be remembered that Moscheles confessed he never comprehended 
Chopin’s music, nor could interpret it, till they had met, aud he heard him play it. 
+ Life and Correepundence, vol. 1, p. 251. 


‘ 


“ Russtan” Field. | 197 


energy, and vigour. He roused no depth of passion, swept his 
hearers with no force. Such a school was rising. New possibili- 
ties of technique were developing. Hummel, to all the grace, 
refinement, and pure taste of Field, added firmness, strength, and 
speed. Here was an effectiveness of greater brilliance. Audiences 
began to look to being roused, shocked, fired. Bravura playing 
could be the only response to this. Moscheles took it up with a 
terrific force and whirlwind velocity. He “could swell the soul to 
rage ” where Field had but “kindled soft desire.” Strange com- 
binations, startling effects, undreamed possibilities, pierced the 
volumes of sound the piano was forced to sustain. ‘ Wild, 
electric, volcanic, and heaven-stirring,” as Heine said. Thalberg 
carried on the furore which Liszt, the Titan of the storm, raised 
into an enthusiasm which may be coldly described as frantic, and 
to whom Tausig and Rubinstein but came as anti-climax. 

So Field, driven before the wind, passed into Switzerland, 
thence to Brussels, and in 1833 into Italy. But neither in Milan, 
Venice, or Naples could he recall the old spell. Curiosity was 
cold, applause unheard, and failure stood gaunt in his path. He 
sank under the bitterness. Crushed by disease and despair, the 
lonely man crept into a Neapolitan hospital, where he lay nearly 
a year unknown. Here, by merest chance, a Russian student 
discovered the old master. He wrote home to his friends, who 
offered to bring him back to Moscow. When he was able to be 
moved, the slow and painful journey commenced. Reaching 
Vienna, something of the splendour of his former triumphs, for a 
brief moment, lighted the dusky way to death. The inimitable 
tenderness of the suffering musician’s playing, the welling pathos 
of the dying man’s nocturnes, transfused them with a moving 
power. They became elegies of unspeakable feeling, and appeals 
for unchecked sympathy. How bitterly Field’s unjust sneer at 
Chopin here rang true upon himself, “que o’était un talent de 
chambre de malade!”’ 

This gleam of past glory faded, leaving the night denser. The 
very victory itself must have deepened his despair, for, reaching 
Moscow with difficulty, he died there January 11, 1837. 

If, strictly speaking, Field did not imeené the Nocturne, his 
genius first achieved for it an accepted musical expression. Its 
emotional character, its poetic temper, we owe entirely to him. 
He fixed its form, and wrought for it a prolonged flow of sound 


198 The Irish Monthly. 


by his use of the damper pedal and an extended accompaniment 
of scattered chords, which give the playing a distinguishing 
peculiarity. Mr. Finch, in “ Chopin, and other Musical Studies,” 
carried away by his loyalty of devotion to the great Pole, has 
ascribed these two features to the invention of Chopin. In pre- 
senting this claim, which Chopin never made for himself, he over- 
looks the undoubted fact that Field repeatedly sustained his 
melody by an harmonious substructure of prolonged tone. And no 
leas was he before Chopin in the harmonies he discovered in the 
use of wide-spread in place of massed chords, the intervals of 
which, however wide, he completed by continuous use of the 
pedal. 

‘So far perfect, therefore, was the nocturne when the younger 
of “The Dioscuri ”“ received it, to embroider it with his exotic 
colourings and his wonderful arabesques; gracing it with ex- 
quisite fioriture, informing it with the impetuosity of rubeto, 
enriching it with new modulations, and deepening it with dramatic 
spirit. 

But it was already an idealised musical dream when he 
received it from “ the most perfect pianist of his time.” 


D. Moncrierr O’Connor, 


A CALIFORNIAN ROSE. 


NLY a rose-tree blooming 
In the scorching heat of June, 

Duety, and faint, and drooping 

In the glare of that summer noon; 
But a miner’s eyes grew misty, 

And his thoughts far backwards flew, 
To where, by a cottage in Ireland, 

Another such rose-tree grew. 


He plucked a blossom slowly, 
And the yellow arid plain 

Faded—and he was standing 
On Irish soil again ; 


* Liszt and Chopin. 








-~- 


A Californian Rose. 


While instead of the wooden station, 
The canon and gulch between, 

He saw his mother’s cottage 
At foot of the old boreen. 


The broad plain lay before him 
In the sunlight bare and red, 
But he saw the hillside rising. 
Behind his house instead ; 
And the scent of hawthorn blossoms 
Came faintly on the breeze, 
And he saw, where the pines grew thickly, 
A line of rowan trees. 


Hardened he was, and reckless, 
In that fierce, mad strife for gold, 
Since he saw the roses climbing 
To the thatch so brown and old; 
Yet a thought like lightning pierced him 
Of his mother, with eyes grown dim 
With watching, and praying, and waiting 
In vain for news of him. 


% * * 


One Sunday in Moyr’ churchyard, 
After last Mass was said, 

A group of neighbours lingered 
To hear a letter read ; 

Read often through that morning, 
Now once again begun— 

Addressed to the Widow Nolan 
From her long unheard-of son. 


And she, inside the chapel, 
Thanked God with prayers and tears, 

Who had given news from her wandercr 
After so many years; 

But she smiled o’er the message sent her, 
So like his speech of yore— 

‘‘For this draft please send a rosebud 
From the tree beside the door.” 


MAGpALEN Rock. 


199 


‘200 The Irish Monthly. 


THE LIFE AND INFLUENCE OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. 


PART I. 


O those who will not, or cannot understand, the supernatural 
work of the Church of God, there appears to be a dull 
uniformity in the lives of our Catholic Saints which to them is 
unspeakably repulsive. That saying of St. Paul’s, ‘‘ there is but one 
spirit, but many operations of the same spirit,” is quite unintelligible 
to them. Nor can they bring themselves to believe that the sanctifi- 
cation of a soul is a work of infinite design, and that that design 
varies in beauty and originality according to the nature of the soul 
itself, and the mission it is sent to accomplish amongst men. Here 
the spirit breathes, and behold a zeal that sets a continent on fire—on 
this soul the spirit descends, and behold a charity that searches out 
and consumes all grosser things, and like a flame points steadily 
upwards—and here again behold the white vestal lamp of purity, 
enkindled and kept alive by the same Divine breath. In one saint 
the spiritual and moral elements are so expanded and developed that 
the operations of the intellect appcar to be suspended ; and in another, 
you pause in unconscious suspense to decide whether the moral and 
spiritual beauty or the intellectual grandeur reflects more glory ou the 
Giver of both. To this latter cl4ss most certainly belongs the great 
Saint, whose name consecrates this page—a saint whose love fer God 
lifted him almost to the level of that beloved disciple who saw the city 
of God in the Heavens, as Augustine saw the city of God on the 
earth—a saint, who to-day, after the lapse of fifteen centuries, which 
have blotted out the names of all his contemporaries, except those 
who have shared his immortality by having been associated with him, 
is teacher, prophet, and intellectual guide to leaders of thought 
throughout the universities of the world—ah, even to framers of laws 
and sovereigns of men, whose words make or mar the happiness of 
nations. And here at least no complaint can be made of that which 
the world calls monotonous and sluggish tameness, which we call the 
calm, unbroken peace, which is the reward of high and sustained 
sanctity ; for the life of St. Augustine is marked by such striking 
events, and his great soul passed through such extremes of passion 
and doubt, that the pious can draw inspiration from his holiness, the 
sinner hope from his conversion, the philosopher or divine, wisdom 
from hig learning, and the student of humanity will perpetually feel 
fresh interest in the strugglings of a soul to disenthral itself from the 
fierce promptings of passion and the seduction of intellectual pride. 


The Life and Influence of St. Augustine. 201 


For St. Augustine was a convert; from a sinner he became a saint, 
‘from a doubter and denier he became a believer and a teacher; and 
it is to study this marvellous and touching change, wrought in such 
‘strange and simple ways by the omnipotence of grace, that we turn 
back now to his familiar story. 

And first we must distinctly understand that his conversion was 
twofold—a moral reformation and an intellectual enlightenment : 
probably the only example you will find recorded of it in the history 
of the Church. For be it known that the striking conversion of great 
intellects, such as those of which we are witnesses in a neighbouring 
country, is generally interpreted as a recognition by the Holy Spirit 
of the holy lives and the noble striving after light which have 
marked the career of these converts. They then were simply lifted 
from the twilight of the valleys to the splendours that shine on the 
Holy Mountain, the natural virtues they practised being raised to the 
rank of supernatural excellences by the Divine power of faith. But 
with St. Augustine there was not only intellectual blindness to be re- 
lieved, but moral depravity to be corrected; and his conversion is all 
the more glorious in as much as the scales fell from his eyes and the 
shackles of fleshly love from his limbs at the same moment, and his 
noble nature was lifted into the serene regions of faith and purity by 
one and the same operation. 

It is not at all difficult to understand how this young rhetorician, 
African by birth, Roman by education, for the education of Carthage 
was essentially Roman, drifted into these criminal excesses which he 
afterwards so bitterly deplored. A hot ardent nature, into which the 
tropical sun had stricken its fire, lay absolutely at the mercy of those 
fierce passions, which alternately please and pain, but whose torture 
far more than transcends the transient delights which they bring. 
Religion, with its sweet soothing influences, was unknown to him. — 
Those radiant visions, which afterwards haunted him with their pure 
ethereal splendours, until they lifted him from the slough of sin, were 
yet afar off. At home the example of a Christian mother was more 
than overshadowed by the example of a Pagan father, who revelled 
in the iniquities of his child, and whose passions, blunted by age, 
seemed to be newly whetted by .the contemplation of similar passions 
which evinced themselves in his boy. Then, too, Sacramental grace 
was absent from his soul, for by a series of accidents, the Sacrament 
of Baptism, which he was about to receive in a dangerous illness, was 
deferred, and he grew to manhood with the great original stain 
infecting his whole character, and directing even his good impulses 
and instincts into criminal issues and results. With such sad equip- 
ments he was thrown into a world that just then was reaching its 


Vor. xvi. No. 203. 62 





202 The Irish Monthly. 


perfection of iniquity, for the hosts of darkness were marshalling their- 
forces for the last conflict with victorious Christianity. Young, 

ardent, impetuous, Augustine was thrown into the midst of the. 
dissipation and vice of that African city, which, whilst Rome was 
gradually being changed into a city of sanctity, borrowed its worst 
vices, and made itself the home of its lascivious worships, and flung 
open its temples to the deities whose very names were pollution, and 
set itself in angry antagonism to that religion of sacrifice and purity 
which already had lifted its conquering standard on the seven hills of 
its ancient rival. . 

It is rather difficult for us to understand the excesses to which 
men yielded themselves freely in these pagan cities. They were- 
demoniac rather than human. A Christian preacher dare not speak 
of them in detail, nor can the imagination dwell on them without sin. 
We have some pictures left us of the licentiousness and sensuality, 
the festivals of blood and the orgies of unutterable lust, that charac- 
terized ancient Rome; yet Carthage was another and a more wicked 
Rome. The civilization of the latter had penetrated to the conquered 
province, and under a warmer sun had given birth to vice, which even 
to accomplished Rome was unknown. A carnival of vice in the streets. 
—vice deified in the temples—vice incarnated on the stage—poets 
consecrating their divine talent, and orators devoting their sacred 
gifts to the embellishment of vice: such was the normal condition of 
a city which, in the just judgment of God, is to-day but a name, whilst 
its great rival assumes with justice the proud title of eternal. Into 
Carthage, thus seething in sin, young Augustine was plunged; and 
in a short time, as he pathetically tells us, he was ashamed when he 
heard his companions boasting of flagitious actions, that he was less. 
guilty than they. And so, at the early age of nineteen, a victim of 
two deadly vices—ambition and sensuality—his father dead, his 
mother weeping and praying, Augustine commenced to tread the 
winepress of the sorrow that is born of sin, not knowing that he had 
any higher destiny than to become famous in the schools and law 
courts—not knowing that there were higher and loftier delights than 
are to be found in the pursuit of sin. And so he wasted the most 
blessed gift of God—the years of youth, and the strength of budding 
manhood—in a little study and much pleasure, dreams of fame and 
desires that raged and could not he quenched, ‘a little folding of the 
hands to rest,” in a sensual paradise; and not a thought of his 
immortal soul, nor of the God in whom as yet he believed, nor of the 
treasures of wrath he was laying up for himself against the day that 
was to come. 

It was just at this time, too, that he embraced the Manichean 


The Life and Influence of St. Augustine. ° 203 


heresy, one of the most singular inventions of human folly that ever 
claimed the credence of men. Its founder, Manes, an eastern mystic, 
a slave by birth, a painter by trade, a prophet by profession, claimed, 
like Mahomet in later times, that he was specially deputed by 
Heaven to bring a fresh revelation to men. And asthe latter showed 
his disciples a certain book which he declared was written in Heaven, 
so the credentials of Manes were certain pictures which he pretended 
were painted in the skies. Hoe perished in a fearful death; but his 
disciples, with all the energy and enthusiasm of falsehood, filled every 
chair of rhetoric in Carthage, and claimed as converts some of the 
most distinguished men of that city. They spoke of the Father, the 
Son, and the Paraclete, but with some mysterious meaning in those 
words which no Christian could accept ; declared the marriage tie to be 
immoral, and wine the incarnation of evil; and invented some 
theories of nature, which were tolerated patiently, because they were 
too grotesque to be refuted; and like all religious charlatans, they 
were for ever crying ‘‘ truth, truth,” when the truth was not in them. ea 
If one did not know the infinite capacities for folly that lie latent in 
the human mind, we would be surprised to hear that such a great 
intellect as that of St. Augustine not only embraced this strange 
religion, but became for nine years its most able and zealous professor. 
Bat the secret was that these Manichean doctrines were very flatter- 
ing to his pride, and very favourable to the indulgence of the passions 
that consumed him. Their falsehood and sophistry afforded him 
ample ground for exhibiting all that logical power and rich eloquence 
of which even then he was a master. The severe doctrines of 
Christianity left no room for conceits and sophism which he could 
build at pleasure around the loose and ill-defined errors which he 
professed; and he not only hated that austere religion, every syllable 
of whose doctrines and discipline upbraided him and made him 
ashamed, but he disliked the simplicity of the Scripture, nor would 
he believe that the wisdom of the Most High was revealed in 
language that would not be tolerated in the grammar schools of 
Carthage. ‘He cried aloud for wisdom, and wisdom fled far from 
him, for he would not put his feet into her fetters, nor his neck into 
her chains.” | 

But it must not be supposed for a moment that Augustine drifted 
helplessly along with the torrent of iniquity without a struggle. A 
great soul like his does not yield itself wholly to abasement without 
protest ; the higher faculties of the mind, not yet destroyed, declared 
against this animalism, and the great intellect was striving with all 
its might against the darkness which enveloped it. I know nothing 
more pitiable than the spectacle of a fine soul warring against its 


204 - The Irish Monthly. 


lower nature, if it be not the spectacle of a lofty mind striving vainly 
to break through its spiritual darkness, and emerge into the light. 
To know what is right, and yet be unable to do it ; to hate what is 
wrong, and yet be unable to avoid it; to lift oneself bravely out of 
the slime, and then to fall back helplessly—to fight against over- 
whelming passion, and then to yield shamefully, and after a moment 
of fierce delight to tear and rend oneself with a remorse that is hope- 
less and a despair that is helpless—surely this is the saddest of fates. 
Yet it finds its parallel in the spectacle of a soul holding its hands 
for ever before its eyes to peer into the darkness, and search its way 
into the light, yet evermore turning away despairingly to a gloom that 
is all the deeper because of the sudden gleams of fitful splendour. Yet 
in each sense such was now the condition of Augustine’s soul. Love 
and light! love and light! this was the eternal cry of his lips and 
heart. Love for an object so high and sublime that the intellect 
should never weary in contemplation of its transcendent excellence— 
. love for an object so perfect that the conscience should never scruple 
its warmest attachments—love so strong that every fibre of the heart 
should cling to the loved object, so that Death itself could not break, 
nor time diminish, tlie strength of its affection—love so vast that the 
soul might ever wander through its happy realms without exhaustion, 
and there find its perfect rest and fruition—and lo! in answer to this 
high demand there was only the love of a perishing creature, and the 
low levels of sin and death. There was some ideal beauty for ever 
before him, beckoning to him, attracting him, almost maddening him 
with the impossibility of reaching it, and behold! when he stretched 
his hands towards it, it was a phantom, and he-touched only the one 
void of wisdom, the riddle of Solomon, ‘Sitting on a stool at the door 
and saying: Come and eat willingly the bread that is hidden, and 
drink of the sweet stolen water!’’ And light! hght! to understand 
himself, and the dread environment of Nature. Who was he? What 
was this awful mystery of life, in which the unseen God had placed 
him? What was the secret of the grave? Who were those around 
him with the marks fur ever on their faces, and the veils over their 
hearts ; good and evil, right and wrong, who hath stated their limits, 
who had defined their natures? Would he ever see clearly? Would 
he ever know certainly? Would this restless intellect ever repose 
in the serene contemplation of truth so perfect that it would admit no 
shadow of doubt or denial ? 

But to all this importunate questioning came as answers only the 
last words of a dying philosophy, the devilry of imported Roman 
worship, the well-coined phrases that slipped from the lips of sophists 
and poets. And with all this hunger in his heart, this wild unrest in 














The Life and Influence of St. Augustine. 205 


his intellect, Augustine went round from law court to lecture-room, 
from temple to theatre; and the young Carthaginians worshipped 
and envied him, and asked one another: ‘‘ Were you present at the ' 
lecture of Aurelius Augustine to-day?” or “Did you hear the dispute 
between Faustus and Augustine? Why he tore the threadbare 
arguments of the old Manichean to pieces.” But he kept the veil 
drawn tightly over his heart: God alone saw its workings. So it is 
with all of us; well for us it is that the eye that searches us is the eye. 
of a Father and a Friend. 

All this time, however, two powerful influences were at work to 
bring back the erring soul to its true mission. That Divine Being, 
whose presence made cool and pleasant the flames that scorched the 
bodies of His martyrs, whose love to the eyes of enraptured virgins 
made sweet and easy the absolute sacrifice they offered up, whose cross in 
after years was to become the Sacred Book whence Doctors should 
draw their inspirations, was watching and waiting for the soul of him 
who was destined to become a ‘vessel of election.” For although 
Augustine did not as yet apprehend the full meaning and beauty of 
Christian truth, he had always cherished the most extraordinary 
reverence for its Divine Founder, and the name of Jesus Christ was 
to him a symbol of everything that was high and holy. He declares 
in his Confessions that, although he felt himself strongly influenced 
by the writings of Cicero, one thing particularly displeased him in the 
works of that great author, that he found not there the name of 
Christ; and “ whatsoeverwanted that name,” he writes, ‘ however 
learned or polite or instructive it might be, does not perfectly take 
with me.” And this sweet influence was insensibly drawing him 
away from his Pagan beliefs and practices, giving him new and 
larger views of that wisdom after which he thirsted, silently ubraid- 
ing him for his follies and excesses, for ever contrasting the grandeur 
of humility with the meanness of pride—the dignity of purity with 
the shame of unbridled concupiscence. What a difference between 
the simple majesty of Christ and the proud folly of philosophers— 
between His words, weighty with solemn meaning, and their 
utterances, so weak and inflated—His example so lofty and perfect, 
and their lives so secretly depraved and imperfect! And how that 
Divine figure haunted him, not with terror and fear, but with the 
same benign influences that rained on the soul of Magdalen and St. 
John. Wherever he went that apparition was before him, chiding 
him, attracting him, making him angry with himself, and dissatisfied 
with the world; and he would make the most valiant efforts to over- 
come the temptation that assailed him, and then sink back into 
despair again, for the time fixed in the Divine decrees for his 


206 The Trish Monthly. 


conversion had not yet come—the gold was yet to be more tried and 
searched by fire before it could receive the impress of its King. 

And day by day, night after night, prayers were ascending before 
God’s throne for him, prayers that wearied and did violence to 
Heaven by their strength and persistence. There is something 
almost supernatural about a mother’s love. It is the strongest 
reminder we have of God’s boundless mercy. It is so weak, yet so 
powerful; so patient and so persistent; it has such a superb contempt 
for the logic of facts, and the consequence of sin and punishment; it 
is ao ready to turn vice into virtue, and to accept the faintest aversion 
from sin as the promise of the highest perfection ; it is so faithful, so 
perfect, so unselfish, so true, that next after God’s love for us, it is the 
best and holiest thing we mortals possess. And if ever this beautiful 
love existed in human soul, it surely was in hers whose name is for 
ever inseparably connected with that of St. Augustine—his sainted 
mother, Monica. How she watched over him in his childhood and 
boyhood—how she strove by her example and teaching to destroy the 
evil effects of her husband’s bad example on the child—how deeply 
she suffered as the first reports of her son’s perversity came to her 
ears—how fervently she prayed that his heart might be touched and 
renewed unto penance—all this St. Augustine himeelf tells us, adding 
his own high appreciation of his mother’s unselfish devotion. And a 
certain remorse was added to the mother’s prayers, for she 
remembered that she, too, had sinned by ambition, and perhaps had 
been instrumental in sacrificing the purity of her child to those 
longings after future fame which she had shared with him. Oh, if she 
had only known how Augustine would be tempted, if she could only 
have foreseen the dangers that are strewn in the path of the young 
and the pitfalls that are dug for their every footstep. Well, it is use- 
less to be regretting a past that cannot be recalled, and, after all, 
Heaven is merciful, and she has seen a certain vision, in which she 
has been told that the mighty gulf between her and Augustine shall 
be bridged over, and he shall stand side by side with her, aud they 
shall kneel together, and their prayers shall mingle, and the merits of 
the Mighty Sacrifice shall be shared between them, and he shall be her 
almoner, and the peace of the future shall wipe out the memory of 
the past. Then suddenly she is told that Augustine, tired of Carth- 
age, is about to depart for Rome, and all her hopes are in a moment 
shattered, because now she believes that he is lost to God, and lost to 
her for ever. 

And yet this step of quitting Carthage, although accomplished in. 
secrecy (Augustine having left in the night time, when his mother 
was praying in a neighbouring church), was the-first great step to his 


The Life and Influence of St. Augustine. 207 


conversion ; for having opened his school at Rome, after. recovering 
from a violent fever, he was so disgusted with the conduct of the 
students and their habits of deception and dishonesty, that he applied 
for a chair of rhetoric in the city of Milan, and there was rejoined by his 
mother. Now in this city was “a man of God,” chosen like Ananias 
of Damascus to teach and illumine this great darkened intellect that 
was sent to him. 

Attracted by the fame of St. Ambrose as a preacher, Augustine 
went to hear him ; and having heard him and admired his eloquence, 
the deep truths which he preached, and against which Augustine 
would have closed his ears, gradually sank into his mind, and gave 
the first great shock to those prejudices he had conceived against 
Catholicity. For, like all those who rage against the truth, he little 
understood it, and he found “ that it was not against the Catholic 
religion that he had barked, but against a chimera invented by its 
enemies.” And there, Sunday after Sunday, when St. Ambrose, 
ascended the white marble pulpit that still is shown at Milan, he saw 
beneath him the widow and her child, she calm, patient, prayerful ; 
and the young professor, whose lectures half the youth of Milan were 
attending, modest, externally humble, but pride for ever stiffening 
his neck and steeling his heart against the first great act of lowly 
abasement. 

Irreligion and vice, those twin giants that ever work in unison, 
guarded the portals of his heart. If one yielded for a moment, the 
other was all the more alert. If the powerful eloquence of St. 
Ambrose shattered every argument which in the secrecy of his heart 
Augustine had fashioned, here was the sad companion of his guilt to 
protest against his embracing that religion which glorifies purity and 
Virginity ; and if ever, and it was often, his soul, raging under its 
base subjection, clamoured to be free from the degradation of vice, 
here was the vain philosophy that captivated him and made him 
ashamed of the simplicity of the Gospel, and that doctrine of 
humility which is always the stumbling block to intellectual pride. 
Was there any hope for him at all? Here, on the one hand, was the 
heresy which he not only believed but professed ; pride that waxed 
strunger with every year of success; the strength of manhood allied 
with the strength of sin; and above all, this illicit love, which was 
«oiled around his heart like a serpent ; and on the other, only the 
prayers of his mother and the Sunday sermon of St. Ambrose! But 
I am wrong. There was One, omnipotent, all wise, also with him ; 
and He who bade the winds and waves be still on the sea of Galilee 
was now about to calm the tumult of this mighty mind. And in His 
own simple, Divine way, He choose as His ministers a Pagan anda 





208 The Irish Monthly. 


child. Alipius, a dear bosom friend of Augustine’s, was a young 
Pagan, who in the midst of infamy had always worshipped purity ; 
and knowing the terrible torture that Augustine suffered, he would 
reason with him, preach to him, extol the beautiful virtue, paint in 
darkest colours the hateful vice. Maddened by his own helplessness, 
tortured by his passionate desire to be free, Augustine would listen 
patiently for a while, and then would rush away from his friend, 
crying: ‘‘ Leave me! leave me! Not yet! not yet!” And his friend 
would stare and wonder at him, and be silent in the face of such 
anguish. Then there came to the soul of Augustine a celestial vision 
of Chastity, clothed in white light, with a glittering band of children 
around her—pure, ethereal, and divine—and she pointed to her 
children and said: ‘‘ Behold, what these are doing, why canst thou 
not do likewise? They, the unlearned—you, the accomplished ; they, 
BO weak in nature—you clothed in the strength of your manhood ; 
‘they so frail—you, so powerful ; ” and the vision vanished and left 
him in an agony of shame and sorrow. At last, one day a traveller 
came, Pontimanus by name, and told of a wonderful sight he had 
seen—a desert peopled with men, who led the lives of angels, who- 
sacrificed not only all sinful love, but all legitimate human affection— 
young men, calmly saying farewell to their affianced, and passing from 
the gay cities to the silent sands, and the brides that were to be, to-. 
morrow espousing themselves in mystical union with the Lamb, leav- 
ing all things to follow Him. And Augustine, not able to contain. 
his emotion, fled into his garden and cried to Alipius :—‘' What are 
we doing ? Did you not hear? The ignorant, the unlearned carry 
the kingdom of heaven by storm, and we with our boasted science 
grovel on the earth? Is it not a shame that we have not the courage 
to imitate them ?” Noble words, Augustine, at last! at last! And - 
he flings himself under a fig tree in anguish, and he, the philosopher, 
the orator, the professor, sobs as if his heart would break with un- 
accountable grief. And he hears the voice of a child in a neighbour- 
ing garden, singing its play song; but he has never heard that 
childish melody before. He listens, and catching the singular re- 
frain :—‘“ Tolle, lege—tolle, lege!” Who ever heard a child utter- 
such strange words before? But, great God! who knows, can it be 
that these words are a heavenly message to himself? And, trembling 
. all over with emotion, he takes up a book lying on the grass before’ 
Alipius, and opening it by chance he reads :'—' Let us walk honestly 
as in the day; not in revelling and drunkenness, not in chambering 
and impurities ; but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not 
provision for the flesh in its concupiscences!”? And suddenly, as wher 
an tropical climes the sunshafts break upon the darkness, and chase> 





A Grove in Spring. 209 


the shadows from valley and mountain, a great wave of light flooded 
his soul, and a strength and a sweetness descended upon him, and the- 
tears of anguish, still wet upon his cheeks, are chased by tears of joy 
such as angels shed when the wandering sheep are gathered into the 
Master’s fold. Paul had spoken to Augustine; the convert of 
Damascus to the convert of Milan ; and the latter wondered at himself 
and the mighty change that had been wrought in him. Was he really 
the Augustine who only yesterday saw doubts and difficulties in 
Catholic truth? ‘Was he really the slave who had uttered that pitiful 
and pusillanimous prayer ; “give me chastity, O Lord, but not yet!” 

Why, it is now as clear as noonday that the Catholic religion is not 

only the perfect revelation of the Lord, but it is the culmination of’ 
that philosophy which is taught in the Platonics—and therefore it is 
a religion not only for bapnes and sucklings, but it is strong meat for 
the mightiest of the kings of thought at whose feet he had sat and 
studied. And as for chastity, why if every fibre of his heart should 
be torn asunder, and tears of blood shall be shed, he will no longer 
be shamed by children, but consecrate by an inviolable vow body and 
soul to the service of Him who hath loved him with an everlasting 


love. 
P. A. SHEEHAN. 


A GROVE IN SPRING. 


TO sunshine gleamed through the slight April shower, 
And kissed the leaves all clad in tender green : 
Their tears fell off them in a glimmering sheen 

Of pearly drops. Each little wet-faced flower 
Dried quickly, as, to greet the sanlight’s power, 

It raised a drooping head. Again were seen 

The song-birds flitting round, their wings to preen, 
They sought the sunniest spots within the bower. 


Hope, like a freshening breeze within my heart, 
Sprang up, to see God’s earth so fresh and fair. 
I, too, seemed in this joy to have my part, 
And of the Spring’s sweet promise took my share. 
A ray from Heaven shone through my.sorrow there, 
And turned to smiles the tears that fain would start. 
M. F. M. 


210 The Irish Monthly. 


THE IRISH CISTERCIANS OF MOUNT MELLERAY. 


A MONG the poems which the Mother Prioress of Stone Convent 

in Staffordshire (Mrs. Drane) names “Songs in the Night,” 
is one, The Return of the Flock, enshrining a very lovely and 
mystical idea. The words of its name always come into my mind 
when I think of our Cistercian monks of Mount Melleray, St. 
Bernard’s monks, who, when they were obliged to fly from France, 
brought to an Irish mountain-side a rich store of blessings, equal 
to those received from the Island of Saints in early Christian days 
by the forefathers of their Order. In 1831 the monks of La 
Trappe arrived in Ireland seeking for a home, and they found it. 
on the side of the Knockmeildown mountain in Waterford, on the 
borders of Tipperary. 

It has always been the peculiar and beneficent method of the 
Cistercians to seek for a wilderness, and here with praise and 
prayer and unceasing labour to weave their holy spells over 
swamp, and rock, and barren tract, until the beauty and fruitful- 
ness of the primeval Paradise is won back to that particular spot 
of earth which has happily become subject to their toils and their 
benedictions. St. Bernard never chose a site more characteristic 
of his intention than did his followers when they first planted 
cross and spade on the slope of the great Waterford mountain. A. 
wealth of wild beauty, a splendour of form and colouring were 
there; and the high crags, round which the eagles hung and 
swooped, towered in that aerial skyey region towards which the 
souls of God-loving men yearn as showing mystic paths and 
openings into the higher and fairer regions in which they have 
built their everlasting home. Suggestive in the very bareness and. 
ruggedness of its noble features, the harsh mountain was more 
delightful than gardens and pastures to the simple and laborious 
ascetic, and he went to work upon its possibilities with an indomi- 
table will. e 

The difficulties most likely to beset him in the very beginning 
were providentially smoothed out of his path. The courage and 
earnestness, and perhaps even a touch of fascinated interest such 
as a large-minded Protestant might feel in the poetic traditions of 
these devoted men, influenced Sir Richard Keane, the landlord of 


The Irish Cistercians. | 211 


the district, to afford them an opportunity of becoming an 
industrial power in the country by giving them a lease of six or 
seven hundred acres of apparently uncultivable land on which to 
establish themselves under cloud and crag and between bog and 
stony wilderness. ° But having no money, credit, or worldly goods 
of any description, in what way did they intend to proceed ? 
Without visible weapon or instrument how were they to engage in 
the struggle which was to cast out the demon of barrenness from 
the magnificent Nature which they had ventured to approach ¢ 
Every Irishman who can shoulder a pickaxe or shovel can answer 
the question. At a sign from their parish priest, the big-hearted 
Waterford men and their lads forgot the sad truth that it required 
all their own toil, humanly speaking, to keep the wolf from each 
particular cabin door, and they rose up in a swarm, and left their 
own fields behind them to labour on the mountain on behalf and 
under direction of the pale-faced strangers who had come to them 
for hospitality in Christ, and in the name of the early Saints of 
Erin who had fasted and prayed with them in their foreign homes 
as brothers in the days when Christianity was young. 

That is more than fifty years ago, and the miracle has been 
wrought. Long patient skill, unbroken endurance, holy forbear- 
ance, saintly frugality, have won against the savage forces of 
Nature; spirit has conquered matter; rock, and morass, and 
shingle have flowered and multiplied fruits under the mystic sway 
of their gentle and indefatigable masters; and the truth is made 
manifest that lies hidden in the revealed Word, assuring an 
incredulous world that if it has but faith it may move the 
mountain. The Waterford mountain, with the quaint name, 
though no longer a savage monarch, is still a king, enfolding in 
his purple a culture and civilization which would put many a 
naturally teeming valley to shame. The wilds of Knockmeildown 
are become the gardens of Mount Melleray, acres of pasture and 
cornfield, a land flowing with milk and honey. 

The vocation of our Irish monks of La Trappe includes many 
branches of usefulness and benevolence. Our St. Bernard prays 
for the world, who either cannot or will not pray for itself, or 
which, praying and being anxious to pray, has not time to pray 
enough; prays for the suffering, the sad, the shipwrecked, the 
doubting ; for all especially who cry out to him for the alms of his 
prayers. He is like the watch-tower and the beacon-light to those 


212 The Lrish Monthly. 


on the high seas, who will sooner or later be on the shoals or the 
rocks, even if now the tide runs merrily and the ship is tight and 
safe. He is, besides, cultivator of the soil, employer of labour, 
teacher of youth, instructor and comforter of those who come to 
seek ghostly counsel of him, to whom his house is ever open and. 
his hospitality without stint. 

At Cappoquin, three miles distant from Mount Melleray, there 
is a comfortable inn, under good management; and from this place 
a delightful car-drive on a summer day will bring one to the gates 
of the Monastery, through the ripening wheat, on the golden 
borders of which extends the yet untamed moor, dark and for- 
bidding, or wayward, gracious, and inviting, lavish of its crimsons 
and purples, and tawny browns to the colour-loving eye. On the 
verge of the green pasture-lands the moor-fowl cry, and the bog: 
lies in all its suggestiveness, sullen, and pathetic, and strong, as if 
conscious of its own intrinsic worth and the wealth it covers, under 
a rugged exterior, with all its pools of water alive and gazing in 
the sky like eyes that are now wistful, now mirthful, and now 
shadowed with profoundest gloom. 

Working in the fields are found the monks and their agricul- 
tural pupils. Outside the gates you will see the guest-house, 
where a respected matron receives ladies who may come to seek 
spiritual help. The Monastery itself is a large, quadrangular 
building, and the church, though not remarkable in point of 
architecture, is interesting and venerable as a religious interior. 
The buildings are 162 ft. in length, 30 ft. in breadth, 32 ft. high, 
and include dormitories, kitchen, chapter-room, sacristy, and other 
apartments. The fourth side of the quadrangle is filled in by the 
church, 180 ft. long, 30 ft. wide in nave, 52 ft. in transept, 30 ft. 
high. The tower is surmounted by a spire of wood sheeted in 
copper, and rises 140 ft. from the ground. 

The first thing that strikes one on entering the door of Mount 
Melleray Monastery is the hospitality of these frugal monks, who 
themselves never eat but twice in twenty-four hours, and whose 
unvaried meals consist of vegetables, porridge, and brown bread 
only. A recent traveller up Knockmeildown relates that his first 
glimpse of a Trappist monk caught that gentle ascetic in the act 
of hastening from kitchen to guests’ refectory with a teapot in his 
hand. Indeed, the arrived guest has only to walk upstairs and sit 
down at a plentiful table, where his hunger will be satisfied before 











The Lrish Cistercians. 213 


he is allowed to proceed further. And I may say in passing that 
for their kindly hospitality the Trappists make no charge. If the 
visitor should be pleased to leave the Monastery without seeking 
for the modest alms-box, into which he may or may not drop an 
offering before he departs, nobody will take note, or indeed be | 
aware of the fact, but himself. And this generosity does not 
spring from an over-supply of riches; for I believe that the monks, 
with all their heroic endeavour, do not find their task of cultivating 
an Irish mountain and acting as voluntary teachers and trainers 
of Irish youth, a remunerative one from a worldly point of view, 
and have often to receive assistance from houses of their Order 
established in richer lands. Of the gentlemen who frequently 
retire to Mount Melleray to make a spiritual retreat, each gives in 
return (in the alms-box) whatever he may think proper or may be 
able to afford. I suppose there are very few who are willing to 
give not at all. 

From the apostolic and agricultural school of the monks (for a 
class who can pay modestly for their training), many youths go 
forth to play a noble part in the world; but to my mind the free 
school for the little children of the country-side is the most interest- 
ing feature of Mount Melleray. Into this school they walk every 
day up a path between blooming flower-beds, the schoolhouse being 
situated in a garden, the exquisite neatness of which not one of the 
little pupils would dream of interfering with. It was my good 
fortune to find Brother Augustine at work teaching school—a fresh- 
complexioned bright-faced, benevolent-looking St. Bernard, large 
and majestic in his robes and cow] of black and white. The school 
is more like a combined greenhouse and aviary than the ordinary 
dull apartment of desks and forms. Brother Augustine accustoms 
his children to live with and love Nature, and it is his proud boast 
that not one of his little wild mountaineers would rob a bird’s nest 
or harm the petal of a flower. As they write and spell, the birds 
that live in the schoolroom hop about their feet or fly from cage or 
perch to alight on St. Bernard’s shoulder; and the good children 
are rewarded by a special permission to be feeders of the pets for 
the day. I need hardly say that the brave pioneering Trappists of 
the early foundation are now, with a few exceptions, no more. 
Their graves are yonder in the cemetery, long narrow mounds, each 
marked with a cross. The present Irish Trappist is a thorough 
Irishman. 


214 The Irish Month ly. 


Every class is represented in the Community, and all needs are- 
supplied from within. They are farmers, tailors, masons, slaters, 
bakers, brewers, shoemakers, etc., etc. One hundred students are 
in the boarding-schools, coming from France and America, as well 
as from all parts of the three kingdoms. The pension is only £30 
a year. Music, art, elocution, are not overlooked in the education. 
they receive along with their farm training. The culture favoured 
by the monks is reflected even outside the Monastery gates, as one 
sees by the aspect of the usual National school, the conventional 
bareness and barrenness of which is here a little relieved by the 
presence of a few flowering plants in the windows and other little 
signs of civilisation. As a rule nothing is more dismally unsug- 
gestive of real education than the aspect of an Irish National school 
scrupulously conducted on the prescribed principles. 

I cannot leave Mount Melleray without one more backward 
glance at Knockmeildown mountain. The view from the summit 
(2,700 ft. high) I know to be magnificent as far as eye can reach. 
on every side, taking in the rock of Cashel, and the ruins of the 
ancient cathedral and home of its kings, the ocean and harbours of 
Youghal and Dungarvan, and a vast extent of winding and pictur- 
esque and characteristic sea-coast. About the middle of last century 
red deer pastured on the sides of Knockmeildown, but they are 
gone. Wild plants and flowers grow about it, and on the very 
highest point is the grave of a man, his dog, and horse: a lover of 
lightning and electricity, a scientific discoverer—Henry Eeles— 
whose last request craved that he might be so buried, close to the 
clouds, the home of his beloved lightning. 

When you visit Mount Melleray and ascend Knockmeildown, 
there is one spot on which I know you will pause and hold your 
breath, where a deep lake or tarn, three-quarters of a mile in cir- 
cumference, lies in a basin scooped out of the mountain which rises 
over it perpendicularly to a height of 600 ft. The water is deep, 
and dark, and cold—no sapphire was ever darker, bluer, colder ; 
the sun does not reach it on the warmest summer day ; its chill is 
so deadly that to bathe in it extinguishes life. Only the eagle, as 
if fascinated by its deep-set gleam, hovers over it, dips and swoops, 
but quickly rises again, and, screaming, soars into the sun. 


Rosa MULHOLLAND.- 





The Blessing of Dublin. 


THE BLESSING OF DUBLIN. 


FROM THE IRISH OF ST. BENEAN, 


HILL and dead 
Lies the King of Dublin’s son, 
At his head 
Sits grey Alpin, stern and still ; 
Neither eat nor drink he will, 
Till the earth have had her fill, 
And Valhal be won. 


Patrick came, 
Lauding loud of holier things, — 
Flashed the flame 
From the Viking-eyes: “ Can He, 
Maker of all things, make be 
That which is no more for me ?— 
Thy King of Kings ! 


‘¢ Speak the word, 
Let the sovereign deed be done, 
Then thy Lord 
Lord of mine is—Lord of all, 
Each a liegeman at his call, 
Bows in battle, gold in hall, 
For him—my son.” 


Patrick prayed, 
Moving as the sun moves round, 
-Naught dismayed, 
King and jarls thrice followed him, 
Heard, with understanding dim, 
Of the mystic murmured hymn 
The strange weird sound. 


Then great dread 
Came upon them, and, behold! 
Stood the Dead 
In their midst, erect, with gaze 
Fixed on them in mute amaze ; 
Lit with red returning rays 
The visage cold. 


215: 





216 ' The Irish Monthly. , 


Said the King, 
Standing with his warman nigh, 
é For this thing 
We are vassals to thy Lord, 
Followers fast by field and fiord, 
True at trysting, staunch at sword— 
Sea, shore, or sky ! 
“ T pronounce 
Tribute to this King of thine, 
Each an ounce 
Weighed aright of ruddy gold 
, Every year shall be thrice told 
From the Northman’s Dublin hold 
At Macha’s shrine.” 


Patrick raised 
His right hand in benediction, — 
“ God be praised ! 
If the toll be paid each year, 
Not the world need Dublin fear, 
Else, three times the Gaelic spear 
Shall bring affliction. 
é“ Gifts eleven, 
Guerdons, in return, shall fall 
From high heaven : — 
Goodly wives the wives shall be, 
The men live manful and die free, 
Beauty still the maidens’ fee 
Of the pure proud Gall. 


4 Feats of swimming 
Mark the youth, sea-loved, sea-strong, 
Bright horns brimming, 
Welcome all to bounteous board ;— 
Gift of war-triumphant sword, 
Gift of trophies, many a hoard, 
Make its glory long. 
~« Champions brave, 
Gallant Kings to bear the crown,— 
On land or wave, 
Gift of commerce from all parts, 
Gift of ever-widening marts, 
Gift in Church of reverent hearts 
Bless stout Dublin town. 








The Blessing of Dublin, Q17 


é Through the haze 
Whence, in long succeeding lines, 
Come our days— 
I behold ascending spires ; 
When, ’neath darknes:, all retires — 
One of Erin’s last Three Fires, 
The Fire of Dublin shines. 


“Tara proud 
Over woods upstanding airy, 
Not thus crowd 
Gracious gifts around thy name, 
From Tara here this day I came, 
Great its mighty monarch’s fame — 
My curse on Laeghairé.”’ 


Patrick spoke ; 
Benean, I, have shaped the lay 
With measured stroke 
In the right resounding rhyme, 
That his words, in every clime, 
Should re-echo through all time 


Till the Judgment Day. 
8. 


When, after the Paschal controversy at Tara, the Celtic monarch Laeghaire 
(pronounced Laery) refused Christianity, though he permitted its propagation, St 
Patrick went to Dublin. Its ruler was named Ailpin, in Irish, which was very 
probably a Gaelic form of Halfdan. Through the conversion of the Norse- 
men (Gall) came the Blessing of Dublin, as related by St. Benean. The poem is 
found in the “Book of Rights,’’ the authorship of which is ascribed to this saint, 
though there are some interpolations of later date. This poem is distinctly declared 
to be his composition, and he, the chosen disciple and successor of St. Patrick, was 
a competent witness. It is true, as objected, that the great Norse Kingdom of 
Dublin was founded later in the end of the eighth century, but then it is also true 
that in the year 790 Dicuil conversed with monks who had resided in Iceland, so 
that there must have been Christian Norsemen at an earlier date than is generally 
supposed. It is now held, as stated by Dr. Sdderberg, that the legend 
of ‘ Balder the Beautiful” is really a stray story of the life cf Christ. 
That intimate relations between the Scandinavians and Irish existed long 
before the eighth century is evident from the fact that, in the second century, 
Bania, wife of the monarch Tuathail, was daughter of the King of Finland, and 
Una, mother of Conn of the Hundred Battles, was a Danish princess. 
Under the names of ‘‘ Fomorians”’ and “Tuatha de Dananns,’’ the Scandinavians 
made settlements in Ireland before even the Milesians, and probably regarded these 
as piratical invaders. Possibly the Norse invasions of later times arose from a 
desire to recover their lost territory. There is no historical reason for contesting 
the existence of a Scandinavian settlement in St. Patrick’s time; but, whatever be 


Vox. xvi. No. 202. | Go 





218 | The Irish Monthly. 


the date assigned to the poem, it is manifest that it is a testimony and tribute, 
borne by Irish Churchmen, to the early Christianity and high qualities of the great 
Hiberno-Norse race, so generally and so unscrupulously maligned. 

The ‘ Black Book of Christ Church”? tells that St. Patrick said mass in 
certain vaults, and foretold the erection of the Church. -Christ Church was built 
over these vaulta by the Norse King Sitric, a.p. 1038. The existence of St. 
Patrick’s wells shows that tradition confirms the account of his presence in Dublin. 
The strange reference to the “last three fires of Erin’’ is a poetic allusion to a 
time when ull Ireland should be a desert, save three inhabited places, of which 
Dublin would be one. This probably is the meaning of the three fires, borne on 
towers, in the arms of Dublin. 


REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 
R.1.P. 


rps learned priest and true-hearted Irishman died on the 14th 
of March at the Presbytery, SS. Michael and John’s, Dublin, 
in the 78th year of his age and the 55th of his sacred ministry. 
The newspaper obituaries have given an additional year to his 
priestly life; but he certainly was not ordained before his 23rd 
year, and he himself read, without correcting, the date that we 
‘assigned to his ordination—1835—in a somewhat extended account 
of his life and writings, which appeared last August in this Maga- 
zine (volume xvii, page 427). That paper dispenses us from the 
necessity of dwelling at present at any length on Father Meehan’s 
most useful literary labours, and it also saves us from the regret 
expressed by some poet whom the Author of “ Lorna Doone” 
quotes in dedicating a book to a deceased friend :— 
| Promitti manibus, submitti Manibus, iste 
Luget, et immemorem te meminisee, liber. 

The following humble and amiable little note regards the 
article in question :— 

Dear F. RUS8ELL, 

Many thanks for the kind notice of a very insignificant individual. Of late 
I have had incessant attacks of dyspepsia, which makes me regard your memoir as 
my epitaph—not written with a pen of iron. 
Ever gratefully yours, 
July 27th, 1889. Cc. P. M. 


We may quote another of Father Meehan’s letters which belongs 
to an earlier date, for it implies that his correspondent was till then 
ignorant of the name of the Author of “ The Monks of Kilcrea,” 
of whom a full account is: given at page 325 of our thirteenth 





Tr” 
Innocence. 219 


volume. The “Feb. 20” of the following letter must, therefore, 
be five or six years ago. It refers to some documents and verses 
appended to one of Father Meehan’s works, probably his “ Irish 
Franciscans.” The reference to Cardinal Moran as Bishop of 
Ossory puts the date still further back. 

“The Author of Zhe Monks of Kilerea is Mr. Arthur Gerald Geoghegan, 
formerly an excise officer, but now living retired in London. 

“ Dr. Moran, Bishop of Ossory, has a copy of Lynch’s “Lives of the Irish 
Bishops.’ The late Dr. Todd, T.C.D., found the original, if I mistake not, in the 
Library of Rome. His copy was, I think, purchased by Dr. Moran. 

é“ I translated the epicedium. When I wasa chap in the Roman College under 
Padre Divico (God rest him !) I turned lots of Ovid’s 7ristia (then our class-book} 
intó Italian verse, which pleased my beloved teacher. You know that the Roman 
raffians cast him out. I met him in Liverpool when he was going to America, 


broken-hearted and persecuted by the villuins who called themselves the Battaglione 
del Collegio Romano.”’ 


This is by no means the last time that Father Meehan will be 
mentioned in these pages; but at present we shall only put on 
record the edifying fact that he was preeminent for his charity to 
the poor, giving largely out of his scanty income, and for this 
purpose refraining from expenses in which his literary and anti- 
quarian tastes might have engaged him. This maybe more to 
his advantage now than even the authorship of “ The Flight of 


the Earls,” though such labours also are useful and meritorious. 
May he rest in peace. 


INNOCENCE. 


Wits rose must die all in the youth and beauty of the year, 
Though Nightingale should sing the whole night through, 
Though summer breezes woo, 

She will not hear. 


Too delicate for the sun’s kiss so hot and passionate, 
Or for the rude caresses of the wind, 

She drooped and pined— 

They mourned too late. 


Birds carol clear : 

‘Summer has come,” they say, 

‘<Q, joy of living on a summer's day !” 

White rose must die all in the youth and beauty of the year. 
Dora SIGERSON. 


220 | The Irish Monthly. 


THE POPE’S LAST POEM. 


The Osserratore Romano has lately been allowed to publish 
some verses which Leo XIII. wrote upon the death of his Jesuit 
brother, Cardinal Joseph Pecci. The poem takes the form of a 
dialogue between the living brother and the dead. And first 
defunctus loquitur :'— 

JOSEPH. 

Iustitise factum satis est; admissa piavi ; 

Iam caeli me templa tenent stellantia ; sed tu 
Cum tot sustineas, tam grandia munia, debes 
Tanta plura Deo, quanto majora tulisti. 

Sume animum ; fidens cymbam duc aequor in altum: 
Numine propitio tibi sint cum fenore multo 
Felices initi pro relligione labores ! 

Attamen ut valeas olim sublimia caeli, 

Ultrices fugiens flammas, attingere, prudens 
Mortali, Ioachim, vitae dum vesceris aura, 
Quidquid peccatum est, lacrimis delere memento. 


JOACHIM. 


Dum vivam, fessosque regat dum spiritus artus, 

Enitar gemitu lacrimisque abstergere culpas. 

At tu, qui Superum securus luce bearis, 

Confectum aerumnis, devexa aetate labantem 

Erige, et usque memor de caelo respice fratrem, 

Quem turbo heu ! dudum premit horridus, horrida dudum 
Fluctibus in mediis commota procella fatigat. 


These lines have been translated in Zhe Tablet, The Datly 
Chronicle, and The Globe. By a strange oversight the Editor of 
The Tablet appears to have admitted the attempt of a foreigner 
who knows English well enough to imagine that “: past’ rhymes 
with “ bear’st,”’ and that “ estranged my past ” is sense and a fair 
equivalent for ‘‘admissa piavi’’ in what he calls in prose “the 
necessarily stiffened language of a versed translation.” More 
curious than the phrase “ while thou draw thy breath ” is the line 
“so thou may’st cool thine eyes in heaven’s breeze,’’ which stands 
for the Pope’s simple expression “ that thou mayest at length be 
able to reach the heights of heaven.”’ 

The Daily Chronicle has, it seems, discovered in these lines “a 
glaring false quantity ”—not merely false but glaringly false, and 














The Popes Last Poem. 221 


yet sundry microscopes have failed to detect it. But this critic 
has succeeded better in rhyme :— 


JOSEPH, 
Justice is satisfied ; my soul, now shriven, 
Has passed within the starry courts of Heaven. 
But thou, my brother, who alone dost bear 
So high an office and a world-wide care, 
The more thy gifts, the more will God demand. 
Frail is thy bark, yet boldly leave the land ; 
With God for pilot and the mighty main ; 
Great is the toil, but great shall be the gain. 
Yet that thou may’st ascend the starry spheres 
And shun hell flames, O in this vale of years, 
Brother, wash out each mortal sin with tears. 


JoacHIM. 
While my pulse beats, with many a tear and groan, 
For each infirmity I will atone. 
But thou, who dwell’st in the calm light of Heaven, 
Look back and aid thy brother, tempest-driven, - 
Bowed down with toil and moil, oppressed with age, 
The whirlpool’s eddy and the whirlwind’s rage. 


‘“‘ Hell ” and “mortal” are intruders here, for “the avenging 
flames ” might include the fires of Purgatory, and venial sin is 
more in question than mortal. The translator has incorrectly 
rendered the admissa piavi, which the poet-pontiff explains by 
recalling all the prayers and masses offered up for his brother in 
all parts of Christendom since his death in the beginning of 
February, which give reason to hope that his soul has by God’s 
mercy fiown already to everlasting peace in heaven. 

The best version, perhaps, is that given by Zhe Globe, though 
The Datly Chronicle has several more successful couplets :— 


JOSEPH. 
God’s justice satisfied, my sins forgiven, 
I rest within the starry courts of heaven. 
But thou, still bearing thy great station's care, 
Owest more to God, the more He bids thee bear. 
Take heart, and boldly sail thy ship to sea: 
Trust but in Him and He will prosper thee. 
So may thy toil, for Church and Faith endured, 
Be of rich harvest blessedness assured. 
Yet, to pass through the fires that purge of sin, 
And the pure heights of Heaven pure-souled to win, 
Forget not, brother, through thy life’s last years 
Each fault to blot by penitential tears., 





222 The Irish Monthly. 


JOACHIM 


Yea, while the breath yet fills this feeble frame, 
Shall groan and tear assoil my soul of blame. 

And do thou, brother, thou in God’s blest light, 
Raise me low-drooping to thy spirit’s height ; 

From Heaven look down upon me, brother dear, 
Support my weariness, my sadness cheer, 

While the rough tempest’s power and wild sea’s will 
Toss my frail bark and drive me onward still. 


The allusion to purgatory in the first line might be better 
represented thus — 


Justice is satisfied, cleansed every stain, 
And now the starry courts of heaven I gain. 


FROM SHORE TO SHORE. 


ORROW hath built a palace in my soul, 
With windows giving on Eternity, 
And thence I see Time’s dreary waves drift by, 
n Swollen with human tears, and onwards roll 
To chilling shores of Death, their final goal. 
Dark burthens on the heaving waters lie, 
Tossed to and fro beneath an iron sky, 
Wrecked hopes, wrecked hearts, wrecked lives that once 
were whole. 


Poor ships! so soon destroyed by envious waves, 
So soon to founder envious rocks between, 
Or else becalmed for aye on arid sand 
Near those dim gardens filled with nameless graves 
Wherein we lay te rest what might have been ; 
Anchor not here: there is a Better Land. 
E. 8. 











Notes on New Books. . 223 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. “My Time and what I’ve done with it,” by F. C. Burnand 
(London: Burns and Oates) is a very clever, a very interesting, but a 
very strange book. As for its cleverness, that is surely to be expected 
from the Author of “ Happy Thoughts,” and the Editor of Punch. 
There is plenty of wit and plenty of interesting incidents. One 
wonders how far it is an autobiography, as it is called on the title- 
page. Some of the changes in the hero’s fortunes agree with what is 
known of Mr. Burnand himself, whose portrait is the frontispiece of 
this new popular edition. The story originally ran through one of 
the London magazines—Temple Bar, we think—and then reappeared 
as a three-volume or two-volume novel. The publishers’ advertise- 
ment of the present edition represents it as containing sketches of 
Public School and University life, and also Anglican Seminary life. 
The public school in question is nd doubt Eton, called Holyshade by 
an allusion to Gray’s famous ode :— 

“ Her Henry’s holy shade.”’ 
Bulford and Cowbridge are evidently Oxford and Cambridge. God 
bless the author for the unworldliness and courage that have turned 
the last pages of this book into an explicit act of faith. 

2. The Catholic World is giving earnest encouragement to the ~ 
formation of Catholic Reading Circles in the United States. Some of 
those interested in the movement have drawn up a list of good stories 
published by American Catholic publishers. ‘‘ Uriel,” by Mother 
Raphael (A. T. Drane), which is out of print at home in Burns and 
Oates’s catalogue, is here assigned to the Vatican Library, New 
York. As this list is confined to American publications and republi- 
cations, Mies Rosa Mulholland is represented, not by Marcella Grace, 
or any of her well known stories, but by Hetty Gray, or Nobody’s 
Bawn. With this story two others are ascribed to her which are not 
hers at all—Vector’s Laurel and Kathleen’s Motto. How has this 
mistake occurred? Our American friends ought not to suppress our 
Irish author’s name altogether—as we had once to complain of Mr. 
Noonan of Boston—nor to ascribe to her books which are not hers, 
as seems to have been done in the present instance. 

3. It would have been an additional recommendation for an 
American book commended in our March notices—“ Rational Reli- 
gion,” by the Rev. John Conway, Milwaukee—if we had mentioned 
that the Author was one of the Dunboyne students of Maynooth not 
many years ago. 

4. Another Irish priest, the Rev. Arthur Ryan, President of St. 


a 





224 The Trish Monthly. 


Patrick’s College, Thurles, has given us in a handsome volume of 
some three hundred pages, ‘Sermons 1877-1887” (Dublin: M.H. 
Gill and Son). These thirty discourses are on a great variety of 
subjects, and they are all animated by a very earnest and practical 

spirit. They are by no means either cold or commonplace, and they 
will furnish useful and pleasant spiritual reading in Catholic house- 

holds. Father Ryan has very few competitors in this field. The 
posthumous sermons of the Rev. Joseph Farrell (the ‘‘Certain Pro- 

fessor”) are almost the only ones we have had of late years from an 

Irish priest, till this new volume from the President of Thurles. An 
Trish priestly heart speaks through all. Writing on St. Patrick's Eve, 
we must again recommend another book by Father Arthur Ryan 

which we announced last month—‘‘St. Patrick, Apostle of Ireland ” 
(Dublin: M. H. Gill). It consists of a Life and a Novena. The 
former gives in fifty pages a very careful and vivid summary of all 
that is known or prudently conjectured about the career of our great 

Apostle. The prayers of the Novena are very fresh and unconven- 

tional, and could only have been written by a warm-hearted Irish 
priest. 

5. ‘Scenes from the Life of St. Benedict, dramatized by a Bene- 
dictine Nun” (London: Burns and Oates), is the best piece of literary 
work of this particular kind that we have seen for a long time. The 
. convent dramas and edifying plays that we have examined seem to 
us very poor. This Benedictine Nun has reached a higher degree of 
literary merit. It is a pity when good themes are spoiled by persons. 
who, nevertheless, will have a reward on account of their good inten- 
tions. Here, in addition to good intentions, we have considerable. 
capacity for dramatic blank verse. 

6. The best collection of hymns that we know is “St. Patrick's 
. Hymn Book” (Dublin: Brown and Nolan). It has been compiled by 
a Missionary Priest for the use of Associations of the Sacred Heart, 
Sodalities of Children of Mary, etc. Besides all the best hymns of the- 
usual collections, it has some thirty beautiful hymns that have not 
before made their way into a popular hymn-book. The extremely low 
price shows that the publishers reckon on a very wide circulation. 

7. How is it that in some small English towns exquisite specimens. 
of typography are produced, which the three capitals can hardly rival ? 
Torquay furnishes the latest example. The dainty book, which Mr. 
F. H. Hamilton, using Dr. Cruise’s great work with full acknowledg- 
ment, has devoted to the Dmitation of Christ and Thomas a Kempis, is. 
printed at Torquay. In every respect it is very elegantly produced, 
and it is worthy of such care. The fifth edition has just been pub- 
lished by M. H. Gill and Sons, Dublin, and Burns and Oates, Londom. 





MAY, 1890. 


A STRIKING CONTRAST. 


BY THE AUIHOR OF “THE MISER OF KINGSOCOUBT, ” ‘‘ THE STRANGE ADVENTURES 
OF LITTLE SNOWDROP,’’ ETO. 


CHAPTER IX. 
ON THE TRACK. 


ISS Matilda’s sleep that afternoon was long and deep, for 
never again did she open her eyes to look upon sister or 
children, ‘but passed away in silent peace. 

From the hour of her sister’s death Miss Barbara drooped and 
pined. She fell into a state of melancholy and depression, grew weak 
in mind and body, and was an object of constant care and attention. 

Madge watched over her with all the love and tenderness of a 
loving daughter, whilst Dora helped with the housework and looked 
after the little shop. 

But at last, as winter changed into spring, the poor lady caught a 
severe cold, and in a few short days followed her beloved Matilda to 
the grave. 

Madge mourned deeply for the loss of her kind friends; and yet 
she could not but rejoice at the freedom that their death had given 
her. She was now her own mistress; and after many years of patient 
waiting was at liberty to leave Oldport, and go forth into the world, 
in search of Anne Dane. 

So, without delay, she resolved to give up the cottage and start 
for London. The sale of the stock that remained in the shop, and the 
simple furniture of the house, brought her some ten or twelve 
pounds. This, and the money sent by Madge’s anonymous friend, 
was the sum total of her fortune. But with that amount the girls 
felt they could make their way to the metropolis, and live with 
economy till Madge got on as a daily governess, and Dora as a 
dressmaker’s assistant. 

Von. xvux, No. 203. 66 


226 ' The Irish Monthly. 


All these arrangements took some time to make; but at last they 
were complete. Everything was sold. The cottage passed into the 
hands of strangers; and Madge and Dora, having packed up all their 
belongings, were looking forward eagerly to their much-talked-of 
journey." 

During the days of the sale, and whilst Madge wound up her 
affairs, the two girls stayed at the house of a respectable woman, who 
had known them from their childhood, She had a married sister who 
let lodgings in London, and to her Madge wrote asking if she could 
give her a couple of rooms in her house. 

But when Mrs. Shinner’s reply came, the girl was horrified at the 
sum demanded for the small accommodation she required.. It was 
more than Miss Matilda had paid for the cottage in which they had 
all lived comfortably, and she feared she could not afford to spend so 
much upon her rooms alone. 

‘‘Lor’ bless you, that’s nothing for London,” said their hostess. 
é Just you wait, Miss Madge, till you see how dear everything is. 
You'll be astonished.” 

“But there must be cheaper places than this, surely,” replied 
Madge. ‘I must try and find oné, Mrs. Fleet. I must, indeed.” 

é Well, miss, take my advice and go there first; it’s a respectable 
place. And my sister’s an honest woman. You didn’t ought to go 
wanderin’ through London, promiscuous like, you an’ Miss Dora. 
You didn’t ought to, indeed.” 

‘“‘Perhaps not, Mrs. Fleet,” said Madge, sighing. ‘It is a large 
rent, but I suppose Id better take the rooms for the present.” 

And she wrote off engaging them at once. 

“ And now, my darling,” Madge said to Dora on the morning of 
their departure from Oldport, “ we have two farewell visits to pay. 
One to the cemetery to place our last flowers upon our friends’ grave ; 
the other to Miss Tranmore. Are you nearly ready to start?” 

“Yes. I have just finished,” answered Dora. And she held up a 
beautiful wreath of primroses and violets. ‘Is it not pretty ?” 

“Lovely, dearest. You have the fingers of a fairy. You could 
make anything, I believe.”’ 

“I wish I could, Madge. And I do hope that Mdme. Garniture, 
of London, may think as highly of me as you do. Miss Tranmore 
says she has promised to give me plenty of work if she finds I can do 
it well.” 

“TIT am not uneasy about that, Dora. But I'm afraid the work- 
room will try you. It is sure to be hot and stuffy. And you are not 
strong, my pet.” 

“No. But I think I shall be able to bear the heat of the room, 


A Striking Contrast. 227 
for the sake of what I shall earn,” answered Dora, smiling. ‘I am 
longing to make piles of money for you, Madge.” 

“ And I am bent on getting you a fortune before the year is out. 
Not by work, but by restoring you to your rights. Something tells 
me I shall soon find Anne Dane.” 

Dora laughed. 

“I am not so sanguine, dear. And if you did find her, it would 
probably be of no use. We have no proofs, remember.” 

é“ That's what Miss Tranmore always says. She declares Anne 
Dane would never confess or acknowledge you as the lost child, and 
that I may just as well not look for her.” 

“ And I think she is right. Although, I must say, I'd like to find 
her, even if it were only to know what she has been doing all these 
years, and how she was rich enough to send you fifty pounds; also 
why she sent it, and yet will not write and let you know where she is.” 

“I know where she is,” said Madge quietly. é“ I have known it 
all along.” 

‘‘Madge!” Dora looked at her in astonishment. 

é“ Well, dear, do not open your eyes so wide. We both know. 
We feel certain that Anne Dane must be with Mr. Atherstone. So in 
that way we know indirectly where she is.” 

“Yes, indirectly. But there may be any number of Atherstones 
in London. Miss Tranmore says it is an enormous place—a wilder- 
ness, and that people don’t know their next-door neighbours. In fact, 
she says it’s like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay to set out 
to find anyone there, unless you really know where they live and who 
they are.” ° 

‘Perhaps so. But I may as well live in London as in Oldport. 
And I am determined to find Anne Dane. If I could only meet her 
and confront her with you, and that portrait of your mother, Dora, 
she would be obliged to recognize you as Sylvia Atherstone. That is 
the one proof we possess. And I don’t think it’s a bad one.” 

“No,” said Dora, drawing out the miniature which she always 
wore round her neck since leaving the orphanage, ‘‘I can see myself 
that I am like it. Dear little mother, you were prettier than I. 
Your shoulders were straight, your figure well-formed. But still 
your child is wonderfully like you. What was my father like, 
Madge?” 

é Tall and noble looking, with, oh, sucha kind face and sweet 
gentle eyes,” said Madge, with much animation. ‘‘I was only a little 
girl when I saw him, Dora, but I shall never forget him. He was so 
good to us all—so—so kind to father. Oh, if I could but let him see 
you, our troubles would soon be at an end, darling.” 


228 The Irish Monthly, 


“TIT wonder where he is, Madge?” 

‘Somewhere in the Bush, dear. Father said he enjoyed his free, 
careless life there so much that nothing would tempt him to go 
home.” 

‘‘Tt seems strange that he should like it so much.” 

“Not at all, dear. It is a glorious country. If you only saw the 
flowers, Dora—the exquisite ferns, that only grow in hot-houses 
here, growing by the roadside ; the gorgeous scarlet lilies thirty feet 
high, the splendid trees, the beautiful birds. Oh, my dear, if you 
saw all this, you would not wonder that people should love Australia.” 

“ Perhaps not,” said Dora thoughtfully. “But if I were a father 
and had a little daughter in England, I think I would leave even 
the most beautiful land to see her, and take her in my arms.” 

“But he may have heard you were drowned.” 

“Bo he may. But who then is the child you saw with Anne 
Dane? I thought you believed she had taken my place—that she 
was 7, 

“The real Dora Neil. I sometimes think so. But I may be 
wrong. I hope I am. I could not bear to think of my sister 
usurping your place.” 

“And I would rather think she did, dear. I often wonder what 
that little girl was like, Madge, whose fate was so curiously mixed up 
with mine. It would make me very happy to think of her grown up- 
tall and beautiful, enjoying the comforts of my grandfather's house, 
instead of lying cold and dead at the bottom of that cruel sea.”’ 

‘You have a tender, loving heart, my pet. But remember that 
if my sister is really in your place it will make it much harder for me 
to prove that you are Sylvia Atherstone, and punish Anne Dane.” 

“Yes. I know that, but except that I should have money to help 
you, I don’t want to be Sylvia Atherstone. I am not fit to be.a fine 
lady, and I am quite happy with you.” 

‘God bless you, my darling. Your love is very precious to me,” 
said Madge, drawing the fair head upon her breast, and kissing the 
sensitive lips. ‘‘ Your happiness is the one thing I wish for. But I 
have a duty to perform, Dora, and do it I will.” 

“Dear, strong, determined Madge,’’ answered Dora smiling. 
é“ But come, dear. Let us go to the cemetery at once. Our hours are 
passing, and we have much to do.”’ 

“Quite true, dear. We have not much time, and I must see Miss 

Tranmore. I have several things to ask her. Bo come along. I'll 
carry this.” And taking the wreath, Madge drew Dora’s hand within 
her arm, and they left the house together. ' 

It was a warm day. One of those close, heavy days that sometimes 





A Striking Contrast. | 229 


come upon us in the early spring. The road to the cemetery was 
long and dusty; and when the girls had laid the wreath upon the 
grave, Dora felt tired and weary, and begged Madge to go on to the 
Court without her. 

‘* [ saw Miss Tranmore yesterday, dear, and I bade her good-bye. 
She will not expect to see me again. I do not feel able to walk so far. 
So Il wait under this tree till you return.” 

“ I am sorry you cannot come on to the Court, dearest. You might 
have rested and had some milk in the housekeeper’s room. You will 
be lonely here.” 

‘Not at all. I like solitude, remember. And I—well, I don’t 
care for the housekeeper’s room at Tranmore Court. So away you 
go, Madge. I’ll dream of my future greatness till you return.” And 
Dora laughed softly. ‘Good-bye; Miss Neil.” 

‘*Good-bye, dear. I'll not be very long.” 

And Madge kissed her hand, and started off at a brisk pace. 

As her sister disappeared from sight, a cloud passed over Dora’s 
sweet face, and she lay back with a sigh upon the grass. 

“It is strange how that old feeling comes back,” she murmured, 
é“ always tired, tired. Just as I used to be at the orphanage. AndI 
thought—I felt sure, that when I had my Madge to love me and take. 
care of me, it would pass away. But it has not. Oh, God, make me 
strong. Grant that in our hard struggle for life in London I may not 
be a burthen on my darling.” | 

And clasping her hands, Dora raised her blue eyes appealingly to 
heaven. 

The air was soft and balmy; not a sound was heard save the sweet 
singing of the birds, and the burr of a steam plough in a neighbour- 
ing field. 

‘““Surely England is a good country to live in, too,” thought 
Dora dreamily, as she gazed out over the the beautiful landscape. 
“: And yet my father prefers the wilds of Australia—at least we think 
he does. He may have come home long ago, for it is wild, in spite of 
what Madge says about the flowers and the birds. It is wild—very. 
It is all so strange. Such an odd thing my story. That I, poor 
little I, should have a father and grandfather, both rich, strong, and 
powerful, and yet be dependent on Madge for everything I possess. 
But it shall not be so long. Il work, and work, and with God's 
help support myself.” 

Suddenly the girl sat up and looked anxiously around. The sound 
of a distant cry, the tramp of horses’ feet, the noise of approaching 
wheels fell upon her ear. On it came, nearer, rapidly nearer, till at 
last she saw a carriage dashing down the road towards her. It was 


230 The Irish Monthly. 


some way off still, but, from the mad action of ‘the horses and the 
swift pace at which they were going, she quickly realized that they 
were running away. 

Dora sprang to her feet, and, running into the field where the 
plough was at work, called loudly to the men to come and stop the 
runaway horses. 

“You are dreaming, young lady. There is no such a thing about 
here,” said one of the labourers roughly. ‘‘Go along and leave us to 
our work.” 

“Yes, yes, they are coming down the road. Quick, there is not a 
moment to lose.” And catching his arm she tried to drag him along. 

He resisted, and pushed her aside with an oath. Then, as the 
carriage turned a corner and came into view, she started away with a 
ery of horror. *, 

‘There, see. If you will not stop them, I must.” And she sped 
quickly away. 

“Good God! she'll be killed,” cried the man. ‘‘ Go back, miss, 
go back.” 

In a few strides he overtook the terrified girl, and thrusting her 
out of his way, ran on to the road. 

As the horses came madly on, the carriage swaying to and fro, its 
occupants calling loudly for help, the man jumped suddenly from the 
hedge. The animals swerved a little; their pace became less rapid ; 
and making a violent effort he sprang at their heads, and seized one 
of them by the bridle. At first he seemed powerless to stop them, 
and was dragged along in the dust. But he held on bravely; and on 
his fellow workman coming to his aid, they at last brought the frantic 
creatures to a standstill. 

The coachman, who had dropped the reins and was holding on to 
his seat like grim death, soon recovered himself, and jumping to the 
ground, ran to the horses’ heads. 

Within the carriage were an elderly lady and a young man of 
about twenty or twenty-one. They were both white and frightened, 
and their voices shook with emotion as they thanked their deliverers. 

“ Come up to Ashfield Park this evening, my men,” said the lady. 
é“ You have behaved nobly. We owe our lives to you. Myson and 
I are grateful, deeply grateful; and we thank you from our hearts. 
But you—we must give you some reward, some substantial reward, for 
what you have done for us.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” answered one of the men, bowing and 
touching his hat respectfully. ‘‘ We only did our duty.” 

‘Well, you did it nobly, bravely,” she replied smiling. ‘And I 
am indeed thankful for our escape.” 








A Striking Contrast. 231 


“Yes, Lady Ashfield, I am truly thankful that my comrade and 
me was able to save you and his lordship,” he said. ‘‘ But had it not 
been for this little lass, your ladyship, we’d never have seen or heard 
anything till too late, not with the noise of the plough and the 
distance from the road.” 

* Really?” cried the lady, stretching out of the carriage and 
shaking Dora warmly by the hand. ‘‘Thank you, dear, thank you. 
But you look very white. Were you frightened ?” 

“Yes,” said Dora faintly, and clasping her hands tightly together. 
““ But, but, thank God you are saved. I did very little, I assure you. 
I was too weak and small to stop the horses, and I only just called 
and made the men come.” 

“You showed wonderful presence of mind, dear. Didn't she, 
Charlie?” 

‘< Yes, mother, she certainly did. But I am afraid,” said the 
young man kindly, “that the effort has been too much for her. She 
looks ill and faint. If she is not too nervous to trust herself in the 
carriage with us, after what she has seen, I think we should drive her 
home. She seems unable to walk, and the horses are quiet now. 
Aren’t they, Smith ? ” 

“ Yes, my lord,” replied the coachman. ‘They are right enough 
now.” . 

“& Will you get into the carriage beside my mother?” asked Lord 
Ashfield, turning to Dora. ‘‘ And we'll drive you wherever you wish 
to go.” 

“ Oh, please, Ican’t,” she answered. “I? 

“What? Are you nervous?” 

“No. But I am waiting here for my sister, and if she came and 
found me gone she would be alarmed. I must not go, please. I can 
sit and rest till she comes. So pray, pray do not mind me.” 

“ But these men would tell her.” 

“ Oh, no, no, I would rather wait. I would indeed.” 

‘Very well. You shall do as you like. But I hope you will 
come and see my mother to-morrow.” 

é Yes,” said Lady Ashfield, “ please. do.” 

“But I cannot. We—Madge and I go to London this after- 
noon.” 

‘© To London?” 

“Yes. We are going there to live and work.” 

“Is Madge your sister ?”’ 

“ Yes, that is—— Dora blushed as it suddenly flashed across 
her that after all Madge, her darling Madge, was not hersister. For 
years, all her life, in fact, she had called her by that sweet name, and 





232 The Irish Monthly. 


had forgotten that she was not so in reality. But now, with Lord 
Ashfield’s inquiring eyes fixed upon her, she remembered that she 
was not speaking the truth in saying that she and Madge were 
sisters. 

“é What is your name, dear?” asked Lady Ashfield, wondering at 
the girl’s confusion. 

““My name.” Dora paused, then smiling, she raised her beautiful 
eyes to the lady’s face. ‘I am called Dorothy Neil.” 

“ Have you been long in Oldport ? ”” 

. “Not long. I was brought up at B—— orphanage. Madge 
lived in Oldport with Miss Matilda and Miss Barbara Parry.” 

é“ Then you are one of the children saved from the wreck of the 
Cimbria some fourteen years ago?” 

‘Yes. I was a tiny child at the time.” 

é The Cimbria!”-cried Lord Ashfield. “Why, that was the name 
‘of the steamer in which Sylvia Atherstone was wrecked.” 

Dora started and grew white to the lips. 

“Yes, the very same,” replied his mother. ‘‘She and her nurse 
were fortunately picked up by a passing steamer. This child and her 
sister were washed ashore at Oldport. I have lived so much abroad 
that I only heard of them the other day. If I had known sooner, I 
would certainly have told Sir Eustace. He would surely have helped 
them, had he been told. The very fact of their having been in the 
same wreck with his beloved grandchild would have made hin love 
them.” 

“Yes, Iam sure it would,” said Lord Ashfield smiling. ‘For 
truly he idolizes his beautiful Sylvia.” 

“ Oh, pray tell me,” asked Dora in a shaking voice, “do you know 
her ?” : 

‘‘Sylvia Atherstone? Oh, yes, very well.” 

“ But is she really the Sylvia I mean, my—— The child that 
came home from Australia?” 

“In the Cimbria. Yes.” 

“ And,” continued Dora eagerly, “was her nurse Anne Dane?” 

‘‘Certainly,” answered Lady Ashfield smiling. ‘‘ But you cannot 
remember either of them. You are just about Sylvia’s age.” 

éI am Sylvia,” rose to the girl’s lips. But she suddenly reflected 
how foolish it would be to make such a statement to strangers, who 
would propably think her mad. So she choked back the words, and 
said in a lov voice: 

“Yes, the same exactly. I was sixteen my last birthday.” 

“You look younger,” said Lady Ashfield. ‘ But then Sylvia i 
tall and ”—— 





A Striking Contrast. 288 


“And straight,” cried Dora. ‘I hope, oh, say she is straight, 
please. I was injured in the wreck. But she’”—— 

é Was more fortunate, dear child. She escaped all injury, and is 
straight and strong.” 

“Thank God for that, thank God for that,” murmured Dora half 
to herself. ‘‘ Straight and beautiful, she is more fit to be a fine lady 
than a poor, weak little girl like me. And oh,” she added aloud, 
“é: Madge will be so glad to hear that” 

Then she stopped abruptly, as she remembered how much Madge 
longed to know where Anne Dane lived, how anxious she was to 

discover her grandfather, and restore her to his arms. 

“ Well,” said Lady Ashfield, “why do you stop? Madge will, of 
course, be pleased to hear that Miss Atherstone is well. And Anne 
also, for I suppose she has not forgotten them.” 

é“ No,” answered Dora, “she has not. And oh, dear Lady Ash- 
field, could you tell me where Sylvia and Anne Dane live?” 

‘Certainly. Sylvia lives with her grandfather.” 

“ And Anne Dane?” 

“Is her maid, I believe.” 

“ But where? In what place do they live?” Dora questioned 
eagerly. 

** Generally in the country. I declare you.are quite curious about 
them.” And Lady Ashfield laughed. ‘But, I suppose, that is only 
natural. So I will give you all the information I can. The Ather- 
stones, and I presume Anne Dane, are abroad now, and do not return 
for another year and a half. They will be in London then, as Sylvia 
is to be presented.” 

“But where are they abroad ?” cried the girl. ‘‘ What is their 
address? Dear lady, do not think me rude. Forgive me if I ask 
too many questions. But Madge is longing to see, to know where 
Anne Dane is.” 

‘‘Indeed? I suppose she was kind to her on board ship? Well, 
it is very nice of Madge to be grateful. But I really cannot tell you 
where she is at present. My son and I left the Atherstones in Paris 
a month ago. They were going on into Italy. Where, I don't 

exactly know.” 

Dora sighed heavily, and murmured sadly. 

‘‘Poor Madge! And I thought I should have good news to tell 
33 

é Well,” said Lady Ashfield, “in about a year and a half Madge 
may have the happiness of meeting her old friend. At the end of 
that time call at my house in London, 16 Belgrave Street, and I will 
tell you where the Atherstones are.” 





you 


234 The Irish Monthly. 


“ Oh, thank you,” cried Dara, smiling brightly, ‘‘ Madge will be 
so glad.” . 

“And now, dear, tell me, what is Madge going to do in Lon- 
don ?” 

‘Teach music. She is so clever.” The girl’s eyes shone with 
proud delight. ‘Miss Tranmore says she plays most exquisitely.” 

“Who taught her?” 

é The organist of the church and Miss Tranmore.” 

‘That is very good. I may be able to get her some pupils. fo 
tell Madge to come to see me in London next week. I should like to 
help her and you all I can.” 

é“ Thank you so much. You are too kind, too good.” 

“Not at all. You saved our lives, remember, by your presence of 
mind. I wish I could be of real assistance to you. What are you 
going to do?” | 

Dora blushed deeply, and tears rushed into her eyes. 

‘‘ Alas! there is not much I can do,” she said sadly. ““I learned 
but little at the orphanage. But I am determined not to be a burden - 
upon Madge, I can sew well. I shall try to be a dressmaker.” 

“ A dressmaker!” cried Lord Ashfield in a tone of horror. ‘Such 
a thing is quite impossible. Tho air of the work room would kill 
you. And association with the apprentices would be torture for you. 
You are not fit for such a life.” 

‘It is the only thing I can do,” said Dora gravely. “It will be 
torture I daresay. But it must be done.” 

“ But surely there must be other ways,” he cried impetuously. 
“ It is not right that a young lady should lower herself, and mix with 
common work girls.” 

Dora laughed merrily. 

“I don’t think I shall mind that,” she said. “The children at 
the orphanage were not ladies, and I got on very well with them for 
nearly fourteen years.” . 

“Yes, but then country girls are quite different from those in 
town. I do not think you should lower yourself in such a manner,” 
he said earnestly. ‘I don’t, indeed.” 

‘‘T shall not lower myself, Lord Ashfield,” replied Dora with 
much dignity. ‘‘My father was a gentleman, my mother a lady. I 
shall not forget what I cwe to their name. But did I refuse to do 
what lay in my power, in order to help Madge; did I sit idly by, lest 
I should lower myself by working as a dressmaker, I should feel 
myself unworthy to be their child.” 

“ Bravely spoken, dear,” said Lady Ashfield approvingly. ‘‘ And 
you are quite right. No honest work can lower anyone. A lady 


A, Striking Contrast. 236 


born remains so, no matter what her employment is. I always respect 
and honour a poor lady who works for her own independence, instead 
of living in idleness at the expense of some hard-working friend.” 

“Why, mother, you are quite eloquent,’ cried Lord Ashfield. 
é“ And I must confess I stand rebuked. But all the same, I do not 
think Miss Neil’s choice of work a good one. The life will not suit 
her.” 

“Well, we must consider what is to be done,” she answered. 
“Come and see me soon, dear child, and I will help you all Í can. 
And now, Ashfield, we must say good-bye to our deliverer. It is 
late, and we have a long drive before us yet. Good-bye, little Dora, 
till next week.” 

And drawing the girl towards her, Lady Ashfield kissed her on 
the forehead. 

‘‘ Good-bye, Miss Neil,” said Ashfield, raising his hat, and holding 
Dora’s hand for a moment within his own. ‘I am very grateful to 
you for your goodness to us this afternoon. I hope we may soon meet 
again. Do not forget my mother’s address, 16 Belgrave Street. 
Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye,” said Dora faintly, and as she raised her large 
earnest eyes to his face they were full of tears. ‘God must have sent 
you and Lady Ashfield to me to-day. It will make everything easy 
for Madge and me, when we have such friends to look after us in 
London. Good-bye.” 

Then Lord Ashfield stepped into the carriage beside his mother, 
and the horses, now perfectly quiet, started at a brisk pace down 
the road. 

“What a sweet face that child has,” said Lady Ashfield, looking 
back and waving her hand to Dora. ‘She is really quite pretty.” 

“ Pretty!” he cried earnestly. ‘‘ She is beautiful.” 

“Beautiful. Oh, no.” 

“Oh yes, mother, she is beautiful,” he insisted. ‘That simple 
child has the face of an angel.” 


CHAPTER X. 


A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Dora’s account of the runaway horses, and her conversation with 
Lady Ashfield and her son, was listened to with much interest by 
Madge. 

That after all these years of waiting they should at last come 
across people who knew the Atherstones and Anne Dane, was great. 





236 The Irish Monthly. 


happiness for the girl. And the promise of help from a lady of 
position filled her with hope for her own success in the arduous life 
she was about to enter upon. 

She longed to see Lady Ashfield at once to question her closely 
about Anne Dane; to ask more particulars about the supposed Sylvia ; 
and if she should find it necessary or useful in carrying out the great 
object she had in view, to take the lady into her confidence. But as 
she and Dora were obliged to go to London that afternoon, and Lady 
Ashfield remained a week longer in the country, she was forced to 
postpone the much desired interview whether she wished it or not. 

Miss Tranmore had given Madge a letter of introduction to a Mrs. 
Prim, who kept a school at Kensington, and required a governess to 
help her with her pupils. To this lady, therefore, the girl went on 
her arrival in town, and was immediately engaged at a very moderate 
salary. For this she was obliged to take a large part in the teaching 
of the school. She taught music to the older girls, and everything 
else including the elenrents of French to the small children. 

The hours at Penelope Lodge were nominally from nine to four. 
But when the bell rang for the scholars to go their way, they handed 
their finished exercises to Madge, and whilst they rushed off gaily to 
their homes, the weary governess had to sit down to correct their 
work, and make up the mark books accordingly. And so the poor 
girl soon found that she had but little spare time, as for one reason or 
another she never left the schoolroom till past seven, and it was 
generally eight o’clock before she got home to Dora and supper. 

So the days passed quickly by, and it was with deep regret that 


_ she was obliged to delay still longer her visit to Lady Ashfield. 


But at last one day, atthe end of her first month in the school, 
she was informed that she might leave early on the following Satur- 
day afternoon. This was pleasant news for Madge, and she resolved 
to take advantage of her holiday and go to Belgrave Street. So at 
three o’clock Dora called for her at Penelope Lodge, and the two girls 
set out together to pay their much-talked-of visit to Lady Ashfield. 

They were both in good spirits and much excited. Madge had 
determined to tell Lady Ashfield the true story of the wreck, and felt 


-certain that in a short time her darling would be rescued from her 


present wretched life and restored to her proper position. 

For much as Madge had suffered in her badly-paid situation, poor 
Dora had suffered infinitely more. The hours in Mdme. Garniture’s 
dressmaking: establishment were long and wearisome, the work 
monotonous, the rooms hot and stifling, the girls vulgar, coarse and 
frivolous. And sweet delicate Dorothy pined and grew thin in the 
unwholesome atmosphere. But she never complained. Her. heart 





4A Striking Contrast. 237 


was set on helping Madge, and no matter how tired she felt in the 
evenings, she had always a smile of welcome for her dear sister ou her 
return from the school. Nevertheless Madge was not deceived by this 
forced gaiety, and she became more and more anxious to find the 
Atherstones, and put an end to her darling’s troubles as speedily as. 
possible. Through Lady Ashfield she felt sure she could do this. 
And so she longed most ardently to see and speak to her. 

“I hope Lady Ashfield may not have forgotten me,” said Dora 
nervously. ‘“Itissolong. If seems almost a lifetime since that day 
in Oldport.” 

‘It is only a month, dearest,” said Madge gently. ‘‘ You saved 
her life and her son’s by your presence of mind. No one, not even 
the coldest, most thoughtless person, could forget that in a few short 
weeks.” 

“ And I am sure she was neither cold nor thoughtless. She hada 
kind though a proud face. And Lord Ashfield! Oh, Madge, he had 
such a strong, straightforward look. He would never forget, I am 
sure. Hé is too noble for that.” 

And Dora’s pale cheek flushed, and her blue eyes sparkled. 

Madge looked at her curiously. 

“You seem to have made him your hero, darling—your ideal.” 

Dora laughed, and her colour deepened. | 

“Is that wonderful, Madge? He was so good and kind, and 
looked so splendidly handsome, yet so unconscious. His manner to me, 
poor little weakly me, was as polite and—and gracious as though he 
had been speaking to his equal.” 

‘‘And so he was, dear. He felt what you were. He could not 
mistake you, for you are a true lady, my pet, in spite of your poor 
surroundings,” 

“I don’t know about that, Madge. A lady should not -feel 
nervous and frightened when speaking to strangers. A lady should 
forget herself and her looks, and I can’t.” 

‘That is only shyness natural at your age, dearest. I am sure 
the highest lady in the land has felt that at sixteen.” 

“ But I always remember my deformity,” said Dora in a low voice. 
“I know it is wrong and foolish. But” 

Madge stopped short, and looking Dora’s tiny figure up and 
down with close attention, said gravely : 

é My dear child, you are not deformed.” 

“ Oh, Madge !” 

“Oh, Dora! I would not deceive you for the world. And what 
I tell you is true. I think I told you so long ago at Oldport. You 
are not deformed. You are small; you are thin; slighter than 





238 , The Irish Monthly. 


anyone I ever saw. Your shoulders from weakness are round—one 
perhaps a trifle, mind I say a trifle higher than the other. But that 
is not remarkable, and would disappear very soon if you could rest 
and grow strong. Then your face, my pet, makes up for everything ; 
it is lovely. Your eyes are the purest of blue, your hair like 
threads of gold.” 

‘Enough, Madge,”’ cried Dora, laughing. ‘‘ In your anxiety to 
comfort me you are going too far. But nothing you can say will 
change my opinion of myself. I have known it,”—sighing—“ for 
many years. But I never felt it so keenly as on that day when Lord 
Ashfield spoke to me, and I read pity in his eyes.” 

‘‘“Whatashame! He is not such a hero after all, then, my dar- 
ling. It was weak and stupid.” 

‘Hush, Madge, I cannot listen to you. Such words do not 
describe him. They should never be used when speaking of him.” 

s Well, dearest, when you are recognized as Miss Atherstone ”— 

“That would make no difference. I am as near him as Dora Neil 
as ever I could be. But oh, Madge, when I heard that Sylvia—for 
she will always be Sylvia to me—was tall and beautiful, I put her 
next him in my mind, and I thought she will look well by his side. 
She, if she is as good as she is said to be beautiful, will be worthy to 
be his wife.” 

‘Dora, you are a dreamer. And in your dreams you have given 
this young man too high a place. You know nothing of him, and yet 
you have endowed him with all kinds of virtues that, perhaps, he 
does not possess. When you meet him again, you will probably find 
him full of faults, a mere frivolous worldling.” 

‘‘No,” replied the young girl gravely, “that could never be. 
With such a noble face he could not be that. If we ever meet—— 
But here we are at Belgrave Street. Oh, Madge, have you courage 
to goin?” 

‘“‘Certainly. I came to see Lady Ashfield, and if I can manage it 
I will do so.” 

And walking boldly up the steps she rang the bell, Several 
moments passed and not a sound was heard within the house. No 
one appeared to open the doer. 

“ How strange! ” said Madge. “ Where can all the servants be f” 

‘‘ Perhaps the bell did not ring,” suggested Dora. ‘‘Try again, 
dear.” i 

Madge did so, and this time more successfully, for almost imme- 
diately footsteps were heard coming up the hall. A chain rattled 
noisily, a bolt was withdrawn, and a dirty looking old woman put out 
her head. 





A. Striking Contrast. 239 


‘“Wot does yer want ?”’ she inquired, staring hard at the visitors. 

<< We want to see Lady Ashfield, please,” said Madga 

“Lady Ashfield ain’t at ’ome. She”—— 

“But she would like to see us. She told us to come.” 

“I tell yer ’er ain’t at home. She's in furrin’ parts. 

é“ Where?” asked Madge. 

“‘T’m blest if I know. Mrs. Downside, the ’ousekeeper, knows, 
but she’s hout. She sends papers and letters and cards to some out- 
landish furrin’ place. But I'm not much of a scholard. So I don’t 
right remember it. Will you leave a card, miss?” 

‘‘Qh, no, it doesn’t matter,” cried Dora. ‘* We have no cards. 
But when did Lady Ashfield go abroad? ” 

‘‘Nearly a month ago. ‘Er father took ill, and she went off all of 
a sudden.”’ 

“ When will she be back ?’’ said Madge. 

“Don’t know. Not for many a month, I’m thinkin’. Perhaps 
more nor a year.” 

“Oh, Madge, what a pity we did not come here at once, the very 
day after we arrived in London,” cried Dora. ‘Iam so sorry.” 

“So am I, dear. But we could not help it. I was obliged to go 
to the school first,” said Madge sadly. ‘It wasa certainty. Lady 
Ashfield’s promised help was not. She has probably forgotten ‘all 
about us.” 


“I cannot believe that. And Lord Ashfield—he would not, he 
could not forget.” 

“ But, my dear, he could do nothing for us—at least, ‘perhaps after 
all he might. Through him, Dora, we might find the Atherstones. 
Tell me,” Madge said, turning to the old woman, “is Lord Ash- 
field in London?” 

“No. ’E’s at Oxbridge or on the continong. I don’t rightly 
know,” she replied. “ But ’e’s not in Lunnin, I know that.” 

“Thank you,” said Madge. ‘‘Good morning. Come, Dora, there 
is no more to be done. Let us go home.” 

“Oh, Madge, I am so disappointed.” And, forgetful of time and 
place, Dora burst into tears. 

“ Come, darling, you must not weep,” said Madge soothingly. 
“I, too, am bitterly, keenly disappointed. But we must not give way 
to despair. We may come across the Atherstones some other way.” 

“ Always those Atherstones, Madge,’ cried Dora impatiently. “I 
hate their name. I don’t care if I never see them. But”—— 

“My dear child, you forget how much depends on our finding 
them. Of what value are these Ashfields except as a means to attain 
the end we have always had in view? If I thought they could not 
help me to that, I should never wish to see them, I assure you.” 


4 


240 The Irish Monthly. 


“ Madge!” 

Dora’s voice was full of indignation, and her eyes flashed angrily, 
as she looked at her sister. Then her lips trembled slightly, and a 
faint colour rose to her pale cheeks. ‘‘ But, of course,” she added 
softly, ‘‘that is not wonderful. You do not know the Ashfields as I 
do.” 

“Well, darling, we must both forget them as fast as we can,” 
said Madge cheerfully. “Come, Dora, dry your eyes, dear, and let 
us go home to tea.” 

As the two girls turned away and disappeared into the Grosvenor 
Road, a hansom dashed up to 16 Belgrave Street, and a young man 
sprang out and ran up the steps. 

The old woman was standing at the door gazing about her, but on 
seeing the cab stop, she fled into the hall, and began scrubbing her 
face and hands with her apron. 

“°Ts ludship, as I live. Goody, Goody, an’ Mrs. Downside hout 
for the day. Wothever shall I do?” 

“ Where is the housekeeper ?”’ asked Lord Ashfield as he entered. 
é Tell her I want to see her for a moment.” 

“ Please, yer ludship, she’s hout,” said the old woman, making a 
low curtsey. ‘‘She’s gone for the day.” 

Lord Ashfield walked up and down the hall. 

That is most awkward. I had a message to give her, a most 
important message from my mother.”’ 

“ She'll be in by eight or half-past, yer ludship.” 

“Too late. I cannot wait. My grandfather is dying. I have 
many things to do this afternoon, and I must go by the evening mail 
to Paris. I am very sorry not to see Mrs. Downside. It may make a 
considerable difference to those poor girls,” he murmured. ‘I can- 
not get that child’s lovely, pale, sad face out of my thoughts. She 
haunts me, and yet I am powerless, utterly powerless. Our gratitude, 
our seeming forgetfulness, is terrible, and yet—— But they may 
come. I must give this woman my message. Perhaps she may 
deliver it properly. And to make quite sure Il write from Paris. 
Look here, Mrs.’”,-—— 

‘Partridge, my lud.”’ 

“Well, Mrs. Partridge, I want you to give a message to Mrs. 
Downside.”’ 

“Yes, my lud.” 

“You are to give her this packet, and tell her that Lady Ashfield 
wishes her to give it with her love to two young ladies who may call 
here any day. My mother does not knew their address, and” 

“Ts one dark and the other fair, my lud ?” 

é“ One is fair, certainly. Fair as a lily.” 








& Little Dorrit.” . 941 


é“ She's been, my lud.” 

‘*Been? When? Did she leave any address? I might have 
time.” 

“She left no address, my lud, an’ cried sadly, poor little lady, 
when she ’eard as 'er ladyship was away. She an’ er sister "ad just 
turned the corner when yer ludship drove hup.” 

“How provoking! Why didn’t you tell me? Why? But, of 
course. you could not know. Pray excuse my heat. But Lady Ash- 
field is anxious, most anxious, to hear from those young ladies. So 
tell Mrs. Downside that when they come again she must be kind to 
them, and having learned their address, send it on at once to her 
mistress.” 

“Yes, my lud. I'll not forget.” 

é Have these young ladies been here before? ” 

“I don’t know, my lud. I don’t open the door but seldom, an’ 
they might ‘ave come without my knowin’ of it.” ) 

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry I missed them. Do not forget my 
message. By Jove, I must be off. How the time does pass! Good 
evening, Mrs. Partridge.” 

And Lord Ashfield jumped into his cab and drove away. 


(Zo be continued). 


“LITTLE DORRIT.” 


EAR “Little Mother” with the patient face, 
Beneath the shadow of thy prison wall 

Thou hast grown up a blossom fair and small, 
To bloom within the gloomy, barren space. 
Dear loving heart that wovest dreams of grace 

Around the ruins of thy father’s fall, 

And his poor failings loving names could call, 
Making homelike his dreary dwelling-place. 


I see him come—thy brave and gentle knight— 
Into thy childish life, to make it glad 
With his grave tenderness and gentle ways; 
Ah! little Dorrit, in a while thy days, 
Fecause of him, were desolate and sad; 
But in the end thy life grew glad and bright. 
Mary FunLosa. 


Vor. xvi, No. 203. 67 


w 





242 , The Lrish Monthly. 


THE LIFE AND INFLUENCE OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. 
PART II. 


é“ I am Thy servant, O Lord, and the son of Thy handmaid : Thou 
hast broken my bonds asunder. To Thee will I offer a sacrifice of 
praise.” Such are the opening words of the Fifth Book of the ‘‘ Con- 
fessions.” Emancipated at last, as David from his sin, as the children 
from the furnace, he must sing a canticle of gratitude to his Deliverer, 
and lay upon the altar an oblation of praise and prayer. And surely 
if ever a human oblation could be an atonement to the Most High for 
gin, it was the noble offering that St. Augustine now made. He laid 
his heart and intellect on the altar of the Lord. Purity filled the one, 
faith exalted the other. He had found the Beauty, ever ancient, ever 
new, after which his soul had thirsted ; and except the inspired melodies 
of the Psalmist, convert too like Augustine, there is no record of human 
speech so beautiful, so exalted, so sublime, as those soliloquies and 
meditations in which he poured forth the ecstasies of his soul towards 
the great Invisible Being, whom unknown he had worshipped and 
loved. I do not know if there be any record that the veil of the 
Unseen was lifted for St. Augustine as for St. Pauland St. John. But 
I find it difficult to understand that anything less than the vision of the 
Eternal could have inspired a human heart with such seraphic love 
as that which clearly burnt in the heart of our saint, and winged with 
celestial fire every line he wrote, every word he uttered. And, yet some- 
how, we are attracted more by the oblation of his intellect than by the 
sacrifice of his heart, and by the stupendous work that intellect accom- 
plished when the light of Divine Faith wasshed uponit. The history of 
the Church is full of examples of mighty minds that were barren and 
fruitless till the sunshine of Faith fell upon them; but St. Augustine 
stands for ever as the most brilliant testimony of the power of purity 
and faith to bring forth the flowers and fruits of graceful eloquence and 
solid wisdom which the Church of God treasures even more carefully 
than his corporal relics, and which an unbelieving world would not 
willingly let perish. And the singular fact is on record that, although 
St. Augustine spent the best years of his life in heresy, when his mental 
powers were fresh and vigorous, there has not been preserved for us one 
single line that he wrote during that period—not one utterance from 
forum or platform; but the riper products of his genius are most 
jealously guarded. For, after all, what without faith is human wisdom ? 
Or what is the “ tinkling cymbal” of human eloquence compared with 
the trumpet tones of a voice resonant with Divine power and vibrating 
with the consciousness of the truth and importance of its utterances? 





The Life and Influence of St. Augustine. 243 


And so Augustine, the licentious student, is completely forgotten, and 
would be unknown were it not for his own most truthful and pathetic 
«* Confessions,’ as Augustine the orator and professor is completely 
hidden by the glories that surround his name as a doctor and a saint. 
For, as an eagle of the mountains, born and reared in a strong cage, 
is utterly unable to feel or exercise his strength, and beats its wings 
feebly and is blinded by the faintest ray of light, and begins to love 
its captive degradation ; but once free it feels new strength with every 
new pulsation of its wings, and soars at last into the empyrean, and 
plunges fearlessly into the most frightful abyss, and poises itself 
over the roaring torrent, and looks steadily on the face of the sun itself : 
so the soul of our saint, imprisoned in the den of vice and irreligion, 
was utterly unable to exercise its moral and mental energies, but, once 
emancipated, it rose into the very highest spheres of thought, 
and plunged into the deepest and darkest problems of existence, and 
lifted itself into the realms of ‘light inaccessible,” and gazed steadily 
on the mystery that shrouds the majesty of the Eternal. 

Nothing was too great, nothing too small, for this searching intel- 
lect. It swept calmly over all those mixed questions that torture the 
souls of men—time and space, freewill and Divine foresight, the 
existence of evil and of a benevolent and all-wise Providence, the 
inspiration of Scripture—all passed in review before him, and he 
knew what the loftiest intellects had said about them, and then 
touched and transfigured them by the magic of his own great mind. 
No one has ever told the world the limits of human knowledge and 
the infinity of Divine Faith in ciearer language than he. Plato told 
him all about God—told him even of the Word Only-begotten, who 
reposed from eternity in the bosom of the Father, led him to the very 
boundary line of the Christian Revelation, but stopped there. There 
was the gulf that no pagan intellect could bridge over—there was 
the abyss across which for thirty years he had strained his eyes in 
vaio for a way whereby he could pass or a guide who would take him 
by the hand and lead him, until at last he saw in Christ the “ Word 
made flesh,” and came to the knowledge of God through Him who 
is the “way, the truth, and the life.’ And that knowledge once 
attained, behold everything underwent a transformation in his eyes. 
The Scriptures, which he had derided for their simplicity, suddenly 
unfolded their sacred majesty in word and meaning. The philosophy 
he had adored became the dark, obscure parchment scroll, across 
which, invisible but to Christian eyes, the name of God was written; 
and Nature unfolded her thousand charms to him, and with her 
thousand voices echoed the peaceful exultation that filled his heart. 
For now, like the great Saint of Assisi in later times, he began to love 


244 The Irish Monthly. 


his life and the world, whose every aspect and accident revealed the- 
gentle presence of its King. He tells us in the “City of God” that 
in the colours which blend and mingle on the bosom of the great deep. 
he saw the love of God always considerate for His wayward child; 

and in the slender filament which binds together the glossy plumage 

of the dove, he recognised the hand of Omnipo‘ence which has 

fashioned the soul of the seraphs. - 

I have passed over by design the valuable services rendered by St. 
Augustine to the Church in his controversies with the Donatists and 
Pelagians; for although it must always be remembered that his 
writings about the Church’s dogmas and discipline were and are of 
supreme importance, I prefer to linger on these wider issues, where. 
he comes directly into contact or conflict with modern thought; for, 
whereas the whole tendency of modern thought is to dissociate philo-- 
sophy and religion, it was his constant task, as it is his highest glory, 
io have united them. And it would be quite impossible to exaggerate 
his splendid services, not only to the Church, but to religion, in this 
great department of science. His works are a storehouse of informa- 
tion and reasoning, from which every succeeding generation has. 
borrowed material for attack or defence. One by one the Christian 
apologists have approached him, and bowing before his lofty genius, 
have taken from his hands the material from which they have con- 
structed works which make their names memorable amongst men. 
And these, not only Catholic writers, but such men as Paley, Butler,. 
Chalmers, MacCullogh, who each in turn wrote on Natural Religion 
and showed the revelation of God, not in Scripture only, but in 
Nature itself. From St. Ambrose, his master, down to the great 
statesman who to-day holds a high and unique place not only in 
politics but in literature, every great illuminative intellect has been 
indebted to our Saint ; and if we had no other answer to that eternal 
impeachment that our Church is opposed to reason and inquiry, the 
name of St. Augustine alone ought to be accepted as a sufficient 
refutation. 

We are quite familiar with the derision and scorn which men try 
to pour on what they are pleased to consider a decaying faith, with 
neither virile thought, nor fanatical enthusiasm to preserve it. We 
are grown quite accustomed to the cry ‘‘ your day is over; your torch 
is extinguished; behold we light it anew at the fire of reason, and 
like the athletes in the old lamp-bearing race of Greece, we shall pass 
it on from hand to hand to the end of time.” Our answer comes clear 
and defiant. ‘‘Take your tiny lamp of reason, and go search the 
abysses; make your minds a blank from which all traditionary ideas 
are blotted out, and go find the truth. We make yuu a present of all 








The Life and Influence of St. Augustine. 245 


that human ingenuity has dovised to help you in your research —the 
figments of philosophers, the dreams of visionaries, even the solid 
discoveries in natural science. Take years of labour and research, 
not only in your individual meditations but in the dust and mould of 
the world’s libraries, Call aloud to your gods to hearken to your 
cries and rain down light from high Olympus. And when you are 
old, and your hair is gray, and your hands are feeble, come to us 
whom in the day of your strength you derided. That subtle objection 
of yours, which you launched so airily and confidently against 
Christianity, behold here it is, anticipated and answered, fifteen 
centuries ago by St. Augustine; and that brilliant fancy which leaped 
up like an inspiration, when your brain was dull from much study, 
and the midnight oil was burning low, why it passed the lips of St. 
Augustine in one of his long conversations with Monica and Alipius 
near the sea at Ostia, or in one of those numberless homilies at Hippo, 
when clustered around his episcopal chair, men wondered at his wis- 
dom and wept. There is something sublime in the spectacle of the 
great mind stretching far back into the past and appropriating all the 
wisdom of the East and Greece, and then reaching down the long 
centuries to our own time, and colouring the thought of men, who 
cannot fail to admire his commanding genius, although they will not 
accept his authority for their faith. ‘There is nothing local or con- 
tracted about this great mind. He spoke and wrote for the world 
and unto all time, and perhaps the best proof of the importance that 
attaches to his writings is, that there is no author, the authenticity of 
whose works, and the meaning of whose words, is so often called into 
question: where he can be quoted, there is no longer controversy. 
He is one of the judges in the higher court, where questions of 
supreme importance are debated, and issues of the mightiest moment 
are decided ; and from his judgment there is no appeal. One of the 
fiercest controversies that has ever raged in the Church turned on the 
assertions of an arch-heretic, who declared that he had read St. 
Augustine’s works ten times and had found his doctrine there; and a 
sect of heretics has built up one of its so-called fundamental doctrines 
on a single text from his scriptural comments, where his words are 
distorted, and his meaning misunderstood. And yet this great mind 
bows in humble submission to the Church, the Mother and Mistress 
of all the faithful, and submits his works to her judgment, to be cor- 
rected, or even suspended from publication, if she thinks that in any 
wiiy they can favour error or unbelief. Nay, even the Holy Gospels, 
which were to him as the bread of life, and which bear on the surface 
indications of their supernatural origin, he will not accept but from 
her hands. And she with her great discernment places her hands 


246 The Irish Monthly. 


upon his works, and gives them to the world with her mighty 
smprimatur. Every succeeding Pontiff who is compelled by the 
exigencies of his time to note the peculiar and ever-shifting errors that 
are put before the world disguised under the name of philosophy, 
points to St. Augustine, and his great pupil and successor in the 
schools, as the exponents of her philosophical creed. And well she 
may. For in the supposition that she had not the great eternal 
promises which are the support of her prerogatives and the credentials 
of her mighty mission, she might shelter herself behind the works of 
St. Augustine and Aquinas, and consider her position impregnable. 
If I were not speaking of a saint whose charity was so wide and deep 
as his learning, I am afraid I should say with anger to those weak- 
lings in the faith, whose minds are disturbed by every chance 
conversation with a sceptic, every chance reading of a padded article 
in a monthly review: ‘these things too occurred to St, Augustine; he 
sdw through them; he rejected them; where his great mind was at 
rest, you have no reason to be disquieted.”’ 

And now, for one moment, let us go back to one calm scene, 
immediately after his conversion, when his mother and he poured 
their souls freely to one another after the long years of spiritual 
separation. There is a famous picture by Ary Scheffer, familiar to us 
all in photographs and engravings. It represents that evening at 
Ostia when St. Monica and St. Augustine quietly talked over one of 
those sublime problems that always occupied his mind; mother and 
son are seated together—the mother’s hands folded in her lap, and 
her child’s hand clasped between them. On the worn features of the 
mother, and the well-chiselled, intellectual features of St. Augustine, is 
peace, deep peace—that peace which the world never gives. But 
insensible to the beauties of Nature around them, in that country 
where every landscape is a sublime picture, the eyes of mother and 
son are fixed on the skies. Behind the blue dome of immensity is that 
Being, whose love had surrounded them, whose mercy had exalted 
them, seeing only the tear of the mother, and blind to the iniquities 
of her child. It is a beautiful picture—a picture that to look at is to 
pray. But we must not linger over it. We, too, must lift our eyes 
and hearts to the skies. To Him, who is on high, whose humility has 
exalted and given Him that name which is above all names, our 
thoughts must soar, our love be directed, our affection centred, if we 
hope to enjoy the peace of St. Augustine and Monica here, and to call 
the former our father and our friend, in the presence of his Master 
and Friend, in the sinless bliss, the perfect peace, the calm joys of 
our heavenly Home. 

P. A. Sueznayn. 


A Venetian Ballade. 


A VENETIAN BALLADE. 


[28008 S may tempt more pensive eyes, 
But give me life on Lido’s strand— 
The glory of its opal skies, 
The tropic lustre of the land, 
The wide waste of the waves where, fanned 
By balmy breezes, wander free 
Bright crimson sails in stately band— 
Fair is the broad Venetian Sea. 


Like blocks of burnished gold, they rise— 
Those hills by fairy vapours manned, 
Sweet are their cygnets’ melting sighs, 
And sweet the shell’s song on the sand : 
The islets in a beauty bland 
Spring from the waters dreamily, 
Evoked by some magician’s wand— 
Fair is the broad Venetian Sea. 


And as the saffron sunlight dies, 
A silver streak on either hand 
In swan-like motion hither hies, 
Pale reflex of the moon. I stand 
By splendour such as this trepanned 
Far from the cares of men, and flee 
To Fancy’s welcome Vaterland— 
Fair is the broad Venetian Sea. 


Esnvor. 


O clime by glory’s arches spanned, 
No nobler nook, it seems to me, 
Have eyes of poets ever scanned !— 
Fair is the broad Venetian Sea. 


247 


EuGgNgE Davis. 


248 : The Irish Monthly. 


DR. BLAKE OF DROMORE, AND FATHER O'NEILL 
OF ROSTREVOR. 


T certain times in one’s life it is well to perform an operation 
similar to what is known in parliamentary jargon as the 
Massacre of the Innocents; that is, when the Government try to 
reduce within workable bounds their proposed attempts at legisla- 
tion by giving up certain measures which they see they have no 
chance of passing. Our ideas of what it is possible for us to 
achieve vary a good deal with the various stages on life’s journey. 
It was a very young man, “a marvellous boy,” who wrote :— 


é: The foolish word Jimpossible 
At once for aye disdain.” 


We come after a time to learn that many things are impossible, 
and to deem it a part of wisdom to aim only at the possible. 

These reflections need not go further, for at present they only 
point to the modifications that editorial plans and purposes must 
undergo in the course of eighteen years. Whatever our plans and 
purposes may have been originally, it has turned out that one of 
the chief functions of Tuz Irtsa Montuty has been and will be 
to preserve the memories of Irish men and women who in divers 
ways may have earned a right to be remembered. Therefore in 
the official statement published in Zhe Press Directory the last 
words are :—“ It makes Irish biography a speciality.” 

Many materials are at our disposal for biographical sketches 
which, we are sure, will interest many of our readers for the sake 
of their subjects; but before drawing upon these resources we 
deem it a duty to bring to some sort of conclusion* a sketch, of 
which no fewer than seven instalments have appeared in our pages, 
the latest of them being as far back as August, 1882 (Inisu 
Monruy, vol. 10, page 529). Those who have it in their power 
to refer back to the beginning of this sketch may find the reasons 
why out of all the members of the Irish hierarchy this Magazine 
has chosen to tell the rather uneventful story of Dr. Blake of 
Dromore. 


* See ‘‘ Pigeonhole Paragraphs ” of our present Number for the brief conclusion 
_of one of our stories which was left unfinished in our pages. 





Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. 249 


That story had been brought down to the time when Dr. 
Blake, after refounding the Irish College in Rome and building 
the Church of St. Andrew in Dublin, was appointed Bishop of 
Dromore. We have already quoted from Dr. Blake’s diary in 
Rome a passage in which, on the 25th of September, 1825, he 
summarises a letter he had written to a Dromore priest, who had 
been his fellow-student of old, and who had helped him in his 
immediate preparation for the functions of the priesthood—the 
Very Rev. Arthur M‘Ardle, Vicar-General of the diocese of 
Dromore, and parish priest of Loughbrickland. This letter was in 
reference to the appointment of Dr. Thomas Kelly, whose imme- 
diate predecessor was Dr. Hugh O’Kelly. The last sixty years 
have seen fewer changes in the see of Dromore than the first 
thirty years of this century which is now rapidly nearing its end. 
Dr. Matthew Lennan was its bishop in the first year of the century, 
as he had been for the preceding twenty years. Dr. Edmund 
Derry’s episcopate was almost as long; but Dr. O’Kelly, appointed 
m 1820, died early in 1825. His successor, Dr. Kelly, then only 
six years ordained, was not, like him, a native of Dromore, but of 
Armagh, to which he was transferred in 1832 in succession to Dr. 
Patrick Curtis. More accurately, he was made coadjutor to the 
Primate in December, 1828, retaining the bishopric of Dromore 
till the Primate died in July, 1832. In the following January 
Dr. Blake was appointed Bishop of Dromore, and consecrated on 
St. Patrick's Day, 1833. 

The seventeenth of March that year was Sunday. If such a 
ceremony took place nowadays, we should find a full account of 
it in Zhe Freeman’s Journal on Monday morning. I have had an 
opportunity of consulting a library* which has the good fortune to 
possess an almost complete set of that journal from its first number, 
more than a hundred years ago. One is shocked to find the 
Newry consecration described only on the following Friday, and 
then in half a column taken from Zhe Newry Telegraph and 
coming after a poor column and a-half of advertisements, the last 
of these advertisements being the announcement of a sermon to be 
preached the following Sunday in Meath Street for the Free 


*The fine library of Holy Cross College, Clonliffe, the ecclesiastical seminary of 
the Archdiocese of Dublin. Father C. P. Meehan has just set a good example by 
bejueathing all his books to this library. 


250 The Irish Monthly. 


Schools of St. Catherine’s parish, by the Rev. Dr. Whitehead, 
Professor of Natural and Moral Philosophy in Maynooth College 
—a name which it will interest some of our readers to find in this 
unusual context, for they have not heard of him before as a 
preacher. 

Dr. Blake was consecrated by his predecessor in the See of 
Dromore, Dr. Kelly, then Archbishop of Armagh, assisted by Dr. 
Edward Kernan, Bishop of Clogher, Dr. Browne, Bishop of Kil- 
more, and Dr. Crolly, Bishop of Down and Connor, who was soon 
to be Primate. Dr. Crolly preached (says the reporter) “in his 
own peculiar and happy style a most appropriate, impressive and 
eloquent discourse.” The new Bishop entertained the Bishops 
and clergy at Traynor’s Hotel—Newry readers will be puzzled by 
this little bit of antiquarian lore—and, strange to say, the clergy 
entertained the bishops and their own Bishop in return on the 
following day. 

While putting these notes together, an accident places in our 
hands an old copy of that Newry newspaper that we have just 
quoted. The Newry Telegraph still lives, though its ‘ Number 
1653 ” was dated September 16, 1828; and, as it only appeared 
on Tuesday and Friday, it must then have been more than eight 
hundred weeks old. As Newry was thenceforth to be Dr. Blake’s 
home, we venture to make this an exouse for quoting from the old 
newspaper the appointment of the first Town Commissioners. At 
@ public meeting convened for the purpose, with Isaac Glenny in 
the chair, Trevor Corry—historical names these for the only 
readers who will look at these local details—Trevor Corry proposed 
a list of 21, which may be given here :—“ Denis Maguire, Smith- 
son Corry, Arthur Russell, Thomas Gibson Henry, Matthew 
D’Arcy, William Hancock, Charles Jennings, John H. Wallace, 
Patrick M‘Parlan, Andrew Halyday, John Caraher, Adam Corry, 
James Spence, James Lyle, P. C. Byrne, William Carter, Peter 
Murphy, Rowan M‘Naghtan, Constantine Maguire, Samuel Boyd, 
and John Arthur O’Hagan.” Why quote these names, some of 
which no doubt have interesting associations for those who dwell 
on the banks of the Clanrye, but not for those who live near the 
Lee or the Liffey? For the purpose of noting that, though Dr. 
Blake’s cathedral town was the frontier-town of the Black North, 
here we have, the year before Emancipation, the Commissioners 
chosen alternately from Catholics and Protestants. The first is a 








Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrecor. 251 - 


Catholic, member of parliament for a short time after Catholic- 
Emancipation, the only Catholic M.P. till the present member, 
Mr. Justin Huntley M‘Carthy. Every alternate name is that of a 
Catholic, ending with the father of a great Irish Catholic lawyer, 
as the third on the list was the father of another Irish Catholic: 
lawyer, distinguished not at the Irish but the English bar. 

From the day Dr. Blake came to Newry he never after left his: 
diocese except on the most urgent business. To be sure Newry 
was then much further away from Dublin than it is nowadays. 
é The Post Office Annual Directory for 1883 ”” lies beside me, and 
it informs us that in those days the Newry “ Lark”’ started from 
the Londonderry Hotel, 6 Bolton Street, Dublin, at seven o’clock 
in the morning and reached Newry at four o’clock in the afternoon. 
In those days the postage of a letter from Dublin to Newry was 
seven pence—very moderate. compared with eleven pence for a 
Cork letter, sixteen pence to Yarmouth in England, and twenty 
pence to Kirkwall in Scotland. Compare that with our penny 
postcard to San Francisco. ‘ And yet we are not happy.” 

* * * 

Thus far I had written concerning the commencement of Dr. 
Blake’s connection with the diocese of Dromore, when, suddenly 
and unexpectedly, news comes of the death of the Dromore priest 
who helped him best and whom he valued most. None of his 
fellow-priests will demur to this description of the Very Rev. 
Patrick O’Neill, parish priest of Rostrevor, whose devoted curate, 
the Rev. Andrew Lowry, telegraphs to me on this 17th of April,. 
“ Father O'Neill, after a brief illness, died last night.” 

These biographical notes were partly resumed for the purpose 
of making use of some letters of Dr. Blake’s which Father O’Neill 
had lent to me. The remainder of this paper shall link together 
the names of these two saintly men. 

Although to one who at the earliest possible age became a 
member of his lordship’s flock in the second year of his episcopate, 
the venerable Bishop seemed to have already been amongst us 
from time immemorial when Patrick O’Neill became one of his 
priests, in fact only a dozen years, half of his term, had gone by 
since the Consecration Sermon preached by Dr. William Crolly. 
Father O’Neill (or “ Mr. O’Neill,” as we used then to say pretty 
generally in the Black North) was not a native of the Dromore 
diocese, but of Kilmore. He had made his studies in the Irish 


252 The Irish Monthly. 


College of Rome. He at once from the beginning of his priest- 
hood gained the reputation of being in a remarkable degree a 
holy, zealous, and efficient priest ; and the esteem and affection in 
which he was held increased with every year of the life that has 
just ended. 

His work lay first in Newry for a long term of years, and 
then in Rostrevor. Between these two divisions of his sacerdotal 
career, the state of his health induced Dr. Blake to give him a 
short year’s rest, which he spent in Rome. This was the occasion 
of the following letters, which we find written in a clear, firm, 
nent, and minute handwriting, which makes it hard to believe that 
the writer was eighty years old. Amid the good old Bishop’s old- 
fashioned formality his affectionate heart betrays itself :— 


“ Violet Hill, Newry, 
‘¢ November 14, 1855. 
“ Rev. AND DEAR Sip, 

é“ When you were leaving Ireland to proceed towards the Holy City, one of the 
wishes which I had most at heart was that God would protect you on your way 
thither. That wish, through the Divine Goodness, has been accomplished ; glory 
and everlasting thanksgiving be to His holy name. Another wish I entertained 
was that your stay in Rome would be conducive to the strengthening of your con- 
stitution and to your advancement in whatever might render you still more useful 
to the great purposes of our sacred ministry, and still more deserving of the Divine 
protection; and I now look forward with hope for the realization of that cherished 
sentiment. Your escape from the imminent dangers of shipwreck and death I 
regard as a special favour from God. I have had reason to be well acquainted 
with the perils of a voyage from Marseilles to Civita Vecchia. Twice I have 
been exposed to them, when land carriage was more expensive and uncommodious 
than it is now; and twice I was within a hair’s breadth of being drowned. The 
sea there has always been remarkable for its numerous and dangerous rocks and 
storms, and for the accidents which were apt to occur in it, the dread of which 
when I was returning from Rome in the years 1829 and "46, induced me to prefer 
the Genoa road and the Simplon to the passage by sea, and I recommend the same 
precaution to you. 

‘‘T perceive from your letter of the 10th Sept. that you were then in Tivoli, 
enjoying, I suppose, the delightful charms of that place, and renovated in spirits by 
the friendly hospitality of the always amiable and kind Dr. Kirby. From the 
9th to the 22nd of September you had scarcely time to grow fat upon the figs and 
grapes, which, notwithstanding the general failure of the vintage, were still not 
exhausted ; but if health has been improved, I dare say your only regret on 
account of the blight is because, as you remark, the people have become somewhat 
discontented by it. You have not mentioned whether you intended after the 
Retreat to become a member of one of the classes which were to cofhnmence on the 
4th of November. I would wish to know that, and if the answer be in the affirma- 
tive, I would like to know what course of studies you mean to pursuc. Considering 
the shortness of the time between this and the first of May, I think you might 








Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O' Neill of Rostreror. 253 


make better use of it, by conversing with Dr. Kirby and other learned theologians. 
and preachers on the subjects they consider most interesting, and by collecting such 
books as are most esteemed by them on account of their matter, style, and 
practical utility. 

é“ Ihave not as yet received the renewal of my Episcopal faculties, ordinary 
and extraordinary, for which I supplicated the Holy See in my letter to his Eminence 
Cardinal Fransoni, dated the 27th of last September. As the period at which 
those I have now will very soon expire, Iam anxious to receive the renewal as soon 
as possible— whilst I am writing, perhaps it is on its way; but, if not, I beg, 
through your services, to have them forwarded to me as soon as possible. 

“é Our old friend and parishioner, Mr. Charles Jennings, departed from this life 
at 5 o'clock on last Sunday morning, and was buried this day. 1 officiated at his 
funeral exequies, but I was unable on account of the rheumatism in my limbs to 
accompany his remains to the grave. His widow and sons and daughters are ull 
here, and I hope will, by their united efforts, contribute to the future happiness of 
each other. 

‘‘Our two convents are going on prosperously, no complaint of bad health in 
either, but both are very desirous of your speedy return. ‘The Sisters-of Morcy will 
after a few days receive a postulant. 

“The Right Rev. Dr. Leahy and all your old friends here, clerical and laity, 
are as well as when you left them, and are constant in their attachment and best 
wishes for you. 

‘* Hoping very soon to receive another letter from you, I will now conclude by 
requesting that you will, in the most reverential and affectionate terms, present my 
very humble but kindest respects to the Venerable Cardinal Prefect of Propaganda, 
and my most affectionate regards to our very dear friend, Dr. Kirby, and to any 
others who may honour me by their kind enquiries. 

“ Farewell, my dear and rev. friend, let us pray for each other. Be assured that 
I am faithfully and affectionately, 

‘¢ Ever yours, 
“M. Brake. 

‘¢ P 8.— Please to inform me :—Do letters with an envelope pay double pcstage 
at the Roman post office? Here they do not.—M.B.”’ 


é Violet Hill, Newry, Ireland, 


“ April 14, 1856. 
<* Rev. AND Dear FaRrenp, 


é Before I was dressed this morning, my domestic brought me your affectionate 
letter, dated the 5th inst., because he knew it would give me pleasure to receive it, 
and great indeed has been my satisfaction in reading it, on account of the intcrest- 
ing information it contains of the progressive discoveries: and improvements of the 
metropolis of the Catholic world, and the gratifying intelligence it communicates of 
your own state of health, and that of our venerated friend, the Very Rev. Dr. 
Kirby. The gratification would be complete bad you mentioned in your letter how 
soon I may have the happiness of welcoming you home. 

° Jn return for the very satisfactory account you have favoured me with, I feel 
great pleasure, because I am sure it will give you joy, in assuring you that God has 
been pleased to blees the labours you underwent here in founding the Convent of 
Mercy with so many marks of His divine favcur and apprckation as I would have 


254 The Irish Monthly. 


-considered in the beginning almost incredible. Miss Ruseell’s profession on the 
Tuesday after Dominica in Albis, and the Right Rev. Dr. Leahy’s instructions and 
influence, have added powerfully to the zeal and exertions of the Rev. Mother 
Superioress of that community. Within the last two or three weeks postulanta 
have been received into it, and on this day two postulants have applied to me. 

“ We lamented, at the commencement, that we would want subjects for its 
duties; our difficulty now is to have cells enough for their reception, and com- 
modious schools, and, above all, a decent and neat, if not a fully becoming chapel, 
for the sisters and inmates. To provide a little more room for the sacred offices and 
duties of a religious community, the rev. mother has converted one of the parlours 
into a chapel of aid, and has endeavoured to do the best she can for the other local 
wants of the institution. In the meanwhile, a weekly subscription hag been kept 
up; but I fear it will require too much time to make it sufficiently productive for 
the wants of the place. Infirmities prevent me from the active exertions I would 
be inclined to make for so useful an institution; and I am loth te suggest to Dr. 
Leahy anything but what he may find it convenient to execute. His good will lam 
fully sensible of, and I therefore leave him to his own discretion and judgment. 
But what I have said will enable you to understand that we need additional cordial 
help. 


“ You remember, I suppose, that when you were on the eve of your dcparture 
from Ireland, I gave notice to our clerical brethren of Newry that the appointments 
I then made were only provisional, and I have taken care since to repeat that 
notice, so that as soou as yon return you will be exactly, as to office, rights, 
privileges, and emoluments, as you were before those appointments were made. 


é“ I feel most grateful to the venerable superiors of our Irish College in Rome 
for the kind consideration they paid to my recommendation in your favour. I know 
not what had been done with regard to the person on whose behalf Dr. James 
Brown interested himself, and therefore am desiroue of knowing from you any 
particulars you may be able to communicate. I have now in my little seminary 
four or five very promising candidates, one of whom is a brother of the Rev. Mr. 
M‘Givern, who studied in Rome, and is now a valuable curate in the parish of 
Ballynahinch, under Rev. Daniel Sharkey. As I have mentioned Rev. Mr. 
M‘Givern with praise, and do very much esteem him, it may not be amiss in order 
to preserve good temper and to prevent cavillings amongst our clergy, that the title 
of Doctor, though a right to it may have been legitimately obtained in the most 
approved manner, be not assumed by the individual who has obtained it until he is 
either a bona-fide professor or author, or dignified by his station in the church over 
his compeers. I have learned from practical observation and remarks the ex- 
pediency of adopting this suggestion, but I state it only as a matter of private 
opinion, and would not attempt to offer it as resting upon any authority. 

“I would have followed your example in contributing towards the erecting of 
the magnificent column now in progress in Rome us a public testimonial of the 
pre-eminent honour due the Immaculate and ever to be venerated Mother of God, 
but the extreme poverty of the majority of our people rendered it impossible for 
them, while provisions were so dear and property taxes enfurced, to contribute as 
formerly to the proper support of their clergy. But better times are, I hope, before 
us ; and though, as you know, I have reduced my income by one-half of its former 
amount, yet I am disposed to contribute towards the column, and also towards our 
College in Rome after a little while. 


“‘T beg you will in the most respectful terms present the assurance of my very 


Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. 255 


humble and most heartfelt respectful respects to our venerable protector, the Most 
Eminent Cardinal Prefect of Propaganda, and most respectful and affectionate 
esteem to the Very Rev. Dr. Kirby and any others who still honour me by their 
remembrance. 

“: I need not repeat it, but still I am often charged to assure you of the constant 

and cordial esteem of your old friends here, clergy and laymen. 
“I now pray God to bless and protect and bring you safe home to us again, 
and I remain, 

. “ Rev. and dear friend, 

“ Ever yours most faithfully, 


“& M. BLAKE. 
ei: The Rev. Patrick O’Neill.’’ 


é Violet Hill, Newry, 


May 30th, 1856. 
“* Rev. AND Dear Sr, 


é“ T assure you I would feel great regret in declining to grant any favour which 
you would be anxious to receive from me, because I appreciate very highly your 
past services in the parish of Newry; but if you will consult your own sound and 
faithful memory, you will perceive that I cannot accede to the request contained in 
your letter of the 19th instant, without appearing to fall off from my estimate of 
your acknowledged worth. You will remember that in obtaining my consent to 
your visit to Rome for the benefit of your health and the recreation of your mind, 
you promised to return in May ; and, relying on your word, and the svlicitude you 
habitually felt for the welfare of this diocese, I refused to make any permanent 
appointment for the discharge of the duties we owed to our Newry flock until the 
termination of the period mentioned by yourself. In consequence of that pro- 
visional arrangement, many things for which I should be anxious, have since 
remained in abeyance, our improvements have been somewhat suspended, your 
elerical brethren of this pariah, though full of esteem for you, have felt themselves 
somewhat disappointed, especially within the last few weeks, and neither they nor 
I were prepared for your request to have leave of absence until September. Your 
state of health being now renovated, makes you perfectly able to resume your 
meritorious functions, and I need not observe to you that in this diocese we have 
no overflowing of missionary help of any kind, and, least of all, of such help as we 
should most desire. 

‘* I daresay it will surprise you to learn from me that I intend to go to Dublin 
next week, in order to purchase vestments and other articles necessary or useful for 
the divine service in Newry. I am not entirely free from the grasp of my old 
tormentor the rheumatism. My limbs are still affected by it, and I am unable to 
dress or undress myself, or to walk without two sticks ; but the main vital organs 
are still sound in me, and though I am very weak, my spirits are sufficiently 
buoyant and cheerful. I would scarcely feel the weight of 82 years spent in labour 
and difficulties but for the never-ceasing accompaniment of rheumatism. 

“ My stay in Dublin must be short, for the visitations of the diocese have been 
already announced, and only yesterday, the Octave of Corpus Christi, I administered 
the Sacrament of Confirmation to 365 well prepared children, and I preached to 
to them and a large congregation in our cathedral of Newry. His lordship, 
Dr. Leahy, my partner in labours, will commence his apostolic exertions on next 

‘ 





256 The Irish Monthly. á 


Sunday. Thus, you perceive, we are all on the alert; the siynal has been given ; 
the trumpet calling us to action has sounded. To the field of action then 
-without delay ! Hasten to stimulate, as you have done before, your venerable 
associates by your example. A life of ease would not become you. Surely I need 
not add one word more. ‘ 
“Our young students in this seminary are progressing admirably in their 
studies and in ecclesiastical discipline. They almost all are unable to meet the 
expense of a journey to our college in Rome ; there is only one amongst them who 
informs me that his parents could afford to send him. Will you be so [good as to} 
give me your opiuion whether I should send him ornot. I pray you also to present 
my most respectful affectionate wishes to the venerable president, Dr. Kirby, and 
any other friends who still honour me in Rome with their remembrance. 
“ Believe me to be ever faithfully, 
‘© Rev. and dear sir, 
‘¢ Your servant in Christ, 


‘6-MicHarL BLARE. 
& The Rev. Patrick O'Neill.” 


“Violet Hill, Newry, 
. “ June 30th, 1856. 
“ Rev. AND DEAR Sir, 

‘¢ Your kind and interesting letter of the 15th inst. gave me reason to think that 
before that letter would have reached me and an answer from me would be returned, 
you would have left the Holy City and would arrive, or be on your way to Paris. 
Your last letter, dated the 22nd inst., which I received this morning, leaves me 
doubtful whether I should direct my letter to Rome or to the French capital, but I 
have no doubt that in one or other of these cities you will receive it. The 
announcement of your speedy return to Ireland gave me sincere pleasure, and I 
believe has been hailed with similar feeling by all your clerical and lay friends here 
and in Dublin. Our circumstances in Newry were in some respects left in an 
unsettled state by the arrangement I made shortly before you quitted Newry, and to 
some questions that have been asked me, I thought it expedient to give undecisive 
answers. But you may be assured that I will always act in a friendly manner 
towards you, for you have always deserved my esteem, und it will always afford 
me comfort to befriend you. 

é“ I sincerely regret that the young gentleman whom our venerable friend, Dr. 
James Browne, sent to the Irish College in Rome has been prevented by ill health 
from continuing his studies there, although by retiring from the place he there 
occupied he has left a vacancy for one of my students. Your letter of the 22nd did 
not come to me by him, but by the French mail. I feel grateful, however, to him 
for his offer to be the bearer of it, and I pray God for his speedy recovery. At this 
season of the year I believe you would not advise me to send a candidate into the 
climate of Italy, but when you are here with me we shall confer on that and other 
matters. JI approve very much of your intention to provide useful books and 
whatever else you may have future occasion for here. In Ireland it is only by a 
sort of chance we can find them, and they are usually very dear, while on the 
continent they can be easily procured. What works would be most desirable for 
you I dare say you know better than myself; but while I rejoice that such 
standard works as the Dogmatic and Theological works of Petavius and Bellarmine 





1, 
Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. 257 


are about to be reprinted by the sure and celebrated press of the Propaganda, my 
mind is saddened by the thought that some powerful and effective efforts are not 
maade for redeeming the character of our treatises on Moral Divinity from the 

charges of laxity. We have, it is true, the elaborate institutes of that prodigy of 
theological learning, Benedict XIV., besides his celebrated Instructions de Synodo 
Diooesana, but at our conferences, or even in our schools, the precious food of 
these is not very familiar to us. If you can by enquiry or observation be enabled 
to aelect some unexceptionable moral theology on the various branches of that 
science, composed by some divine like Petavius or Bellarmine, in becoming stylo, 
sound matter, reduced logically from the pure principles of the Catholic Church, you 
would greatly oblige all our venerable clergy by making it known to us. At 
present our conferences do little good for want of some work of such a character, 
and until we have such a one, the Cummingses and other bigots of this description, and 
the infidels of the day, will treat our holy religion with scorn and contempt. 

é: Hoping to see you soon, I remain most sincerely, 

“ Kind and dear sir, 
‘s Ever faithfully yours, 
“ M. Brake. 
sé The Rev. Patrick O’Neill. 

& P.S.—I have not the honour of being personally acquainted with His Eminence 
Cardinal Barnabo, but the character of His Eminence has peen long known to me 
and always admired by me. I congratulate with all the nations of the earth! 
on the felicity of having so great and so good a personage appointed by the wise 
and ever-provident mind of our most Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., for our 
protector and our guide. 

éI would feel much honoured and gratified by having my most respectful 
though unworthy homage presented to His Eminence. 

‘OM. Buaxe.”’ 


In these letters the old Bishop mentions not only his coadjutor 
but his coadjutor’s future coadjutor; for time has gone on, and 
many years have passed since then, and the young Dooctor 
M‘Givern of those days, who was counselled to holdin abeyance his 
degree of Doctor of Divinity, is now Coadjutor Bishop of Dromore. 
It has been noted as a proof of the sagacity of “J. K. L.,” 
the famous Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin", that in one of 
his last letters he singled out a young priest called Paul Cullen as. 
a fit successor in his See. And here we have Dr. Blake singling 
out for commendation the young priest who was to be his successor 
at one remove. 


* Is it not atrocious that within the last three or four weeks, at a Protestant 
meeting in Dublin, some Reverend Mr. Rambaut should have had the brazen 
audacity to say that Dr. Doyle died a Protestant? Father James Maher, Cardinal 
Cullen’s uncle, has left a minute account of the edifying death of his bishop and of 
the fervour and humility with which he received the last sacraments of the Church. 
If it had not been reported in the newspapers without contradiction, we should not 
have considered even a Reverend Mr. Rambaut capable of such a piece of silly 
mendacity. 

Vou. xvi, No. 203. 68 


258 The Irish Monthly. 


We have given these letters of Dr. Blake out of their proper 
place, because after being in our hands for several years we had 
just given them to the printer when the person whom they con- 
cerned passed away from the mortal state in which such things 
could interest him. Why not have finished Dr. Blake’s story, 
such as it is, when there was at least one reader who would be 
interested in its most trivial detail? But such disappointments, 
small or great, are constantly occurring in human things; and 
among grey-headed people there is many a regret (only more | 
bitter and more enduring) correspending with that “ Child’s First 
Grief’’ which we used to admire before the critics had taught us 
that Mrs. Hemans had only a thin vein of inspiration :— 


“ Ah, while my brother with me played, 
Would I had loved him more! ”’ 


This would be a very perfect rule of charity—namely, if we could 
"manage to act and feel towards each of those around us as if he or 
she were to be taken away from us at once, and perhaps as suddenly 
as Father O’Neill was taken away from the thousands who loved 
him and depended on him. 

For that “brief illness” which the telegram of his death 
mentioned occupied only the afternoon hours of one day. How- 
ever, before reaching the end, let us go back to the beginning, and 
give the dates of Father O’Neill’s life more minutely, as his death 
at this precise moment has chanced to link him more closely with 
the holy prelate with whom he was closely linked in life, and as, 
since his name came into these pages, we have seen his body laid 
in the earth before the altar at which he had offered the Holy 
Sacrifice some nine thousand times, the last time being on the very 
day of his death. 

Patrick O’Neill was born near Ballyjamesduff, in the County 
of Cavan, on the 10th of June, 1820. He first went to a country 
school in the neighbourhood, and afterwards at Oldcastle, in County 
Meath, where one of his class-fellows was the present Bishop of 
Meath, Dr. Thomas Nulty. About his twentieth year he entered 
the Irish College at Rome. If even for poor Byron Rome was 
“the city of the soul,” what was the Eternal City for this pious, 
warm-hearted Irish youth? Onthe completion of a full course of 
theological studies, he was ordained priest on the 13th of April, 
1846, so that his last mass on the day of his death may very pro- 





Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. 259 


bably have been precisely on the forty-fourth anniversary of his 
first, mass, which is often preceded by a day or two of special pre- 
paration after Ordination. 

We do not know the circumstances which secured for the diocese 
of Dromore the lifelong service of the young Kilmore priest. 
Though not a fis but only an affiliate, an adopted son of the 
diocese, he soon became Dromorensibus Dromorensior. If each 
diocese has a special guardian angel of its own, the Angel of Dro- 
more must have rejoiced exceedingly on that June day in 1846 
when Father O’Neill, fresh from Rome, took up his abode in the 
‘parochial house ”—-the name presbytery isnot used there, perhaps on 
account of its presbyterian sound. Two years later, he was 
appointed Administrator of Newry, which anxious and laborious 
position he filled for sixteen years with consummate ability, 
prudence and zeal, in the constant exercise of the highest priestly 
qualities. 

The “old Bishop,” Dr. Blake, had meanwhile shared with 
another the too heavy burden of his cross, as Our Lord with Simon 
of Cyrene. Of Dr. John Pius Leahy much will have to be said 
when the prohibition, Ne /audes hominem tn vita sua, is removed. 
But he, too, would attribute to Father O'Neill a large share in the 
good works of his episcopate. Indeed in the beginning of that 
episcopate he bore the following testimony on the occasion of that 
prolonged visit to Rome to which Dr. Blake’s letters also re- 
ferred :'— 


“Newry, September 17th, 1855. 
“ My Dean Me. O’ NEILL, : 

“I gladly avail myself of the opportunity affurded by your approaching 
departure for Rome to give expression to the esteem in which I hold your many 
virtues, and to the gratitude I feel for the invaluable assistance I have received 
from you since my appointment to the episcopacy. Your exemplary conduct, your 
genuine piety, and your untiring zeal, while they powerfully contributed to promote 
the honour ef God and the salvation of hundreds, have also secured for you the 
reverence and affection of the Catholics of this extensive parish. ‘I'o you they owe 
the introduction of the Christian Brothers and the Sisters of Mercy, and it must 
ever prove to you a source of the purest gratification to reflect that the incalculable 
good you have there effected will continue to fructify long after you shall have 
been removed to the reward of your labours. You are now about to visit that great 

-city where the blood shed by its many martyrs will no doubt inflame your zeal 
into a still more glowing ardour, and where the vast acquirements of so many 
eminent divines will communicate to your mind a still larger treasure of ecclesias- 
tical knowledge. I hope you will soon return to tho scene of your toils, refreshed 
and animated for new exertions, and I beg of God, through the merits of our 
Divine Saviour and the intercession of the Blessed Virgin, that He will preserve and 


260 The Irish Monthly. 


increase in you the grace He himself has given, guarding you from danger by 
infusing into your soul a spirit of sincere humility, a consciousness of your own 
insufficiency to think even of what is good, and an unceasing recourse for light and 
strength to Him without whom we are mere fools with all our wisdom, and‘ 
cowards with all our courage. 
‘¢ Tam, my dear Mr. O'Neill, 
‘¢ Most sincerely and affectionately yours, 
“J, P. Leany, 
‘¢ Coadjutor of Dromore.” 


If it were in my power to rearrange these hurried and confused 
notes, I should separate those whom God joined, and treat apart 
of the priest and the bishop. More has still to be said of Dr. 
Blake and of Father O’Neill; and, as the proper order of topics. 
cannot be observed, it may not be quite amiss even to increase the: 
disorder by ending for the present with a letter addressed to Dr. 
Blake when Father O’Neill was only a child of seven years of age, 
and yet inaugurating an ecclesiastical career which has not yet 
reached its term. Monsignor Meagher, Canon Fricker’s predeces- 
sor in Rathmines, thus introduces to the founder of the Irish 
College at Rome Father Matthew Collier, now the venerable P.P. 
of St. Agatha’s, North William Street, Dublin, living beloved and 
venerated amongst us still, although spoken of in the following: 
terms so long ago as two years before Catholic Emancipation :— 


“Dublin, May 10th, 1827. 
‘Very Rav. AND Dear SIE, 


‘‘It is with no ordinary pleasure I have learned that a young gentleman, Mr. 
M. Collier, has been selected out of my seminary by His Grace the Archbishop to- 
become one of the earliest members of the national college which you have so 
fortunately succeeded in establishing at Rome. I feel the more gratified at this 
selection as I have enjoyed every means of becoming intimately acquainted with 
his character, while the result has been a conviction of his singular merit. He has 
been for nearly three years under my care, and it is with a sentiment far superior 
to that of mere recommendation that I can aver I never discovered in his conduct 
one single trait that did not contribute to mark him out as a child of benediction. 
It could not be otherwise, reared as he has been under the eye of the saint of our 
days, Fr. Henry Young. The only disadvantage with which he had to struggle is, I 
trust, now removed—namely, a delicacy of constitution arising from a tendency to 
outgrow his strength. This has often obliged him to relax his application to study, 
and though I am confident he will be found competent to commence his course of 
philosophy should it be deemed expedient to make him embark at once in the study 
of the sciences, yet as he conceives an ardent wish to complete his knowledge of the- 
classics, particularly of the Greek, in which he was beginning to make rapid pro- 
gress, he wishes that I should entreat of you to allow him, if possible, to prosecute 
these studies for a short time longer. 


“ As I cannot forget the hearty wishes which you were pleased to exprese for 





Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. 261: 


“the success of the project of education which I formed on your departure from 
Dublin, perhaps it may not be deemed intrusive to inform you that it still goes on 
to prosper. The seminary contains about ninety children, and is daily on the 
increase. My plan is to secure patronage by exerting every energy to promote the 
literary improvement of the children, and to lead them to God by habituating them 
betimes to a punctual discharge of every religious duty, by endeavouring to make 
them, if possible, in love with the happiness and amiableness of virtue, and by 
dispelling what young minds are bat too apt to consider as the gloomy discipline of 
religion. I have had many difficulties to encounter, but my hopes are still 
eangnine that Divine Providence will enable me at length to establish on a perma- 
nent footing a system of education for the middle ranks of society, which may 
prove an introdustion not only to a literary but to a devout life. I am almost 
ashamed, sir, to have thus intruded on your valuable time by a mention of my 
affairs, but it presents me with an opportunity of begging that you will recommend 
at the shrine of the Apostles that our good God may enable me to water this little 
mustardseed, and that He will Himself for His glory give it an abundant increase. 

é I would venture to extend the length of this already overgrown letter by an 
account of eome of these most extraordinary events which are passing here, but that 
Mr. Collier will satisfy you more amply on these heads. You will rejoice to hear 
that the religious of George’s Hill continue in number and efficacy the same as 
when you saw them ; all except poor Mother Knowd, who has suffered of late much 
from rheumatism. Ere I conclude, sir, may I entreat that you will have the good- 
ness, whenever opportunity offers, to remember me in the kindest terms to Rev. Mr. 
Shea, to my dear friend and fellow-student, Monsignor Vanicelli of St. Peter's, and 
to my revered friend, Signor Tornatori of the Missions. To- each of these gentle- 
men I would have felt it a duty to write did not severe indisposition prevent me 
at present. Praying that our Lord may be pleased to grant you every blessing, 

‘¢T remain, rev. and dear sir, 
“ Your obedient humble servant in C. J., 
“Wx, MEAGHER,” 


In giving this letter and the others we have not strayed from 
our ; subject: for the link between Father Collier and Father 
ON eillis Dr. Blake, first as President and then as Bishop. To 
Dr. Blake we shall return, with a few more words also about the 
good priest whose sudden death has changed the current of our 
thoughts more perhaps than we ought to have allowed it to do. 
But for the present we must end by expressing our conviction that 
Erin, the land of the Soggarth Aroon, has never given birth to a 
priestlier priest or a more Irish-hearted Irishman than the beloved 
pastor for whom Rostrevor and Killowen are now in mourning. 


262 The Irish Monthly. 


THE CHILDREN’S BALLAD ROSARY. 


[The intention of the writter of these verses is to give the divine facts com — 
memorated in the Rosary in a form which may aid in imprinting them upon the 
minds of the young at a time of life when the memory is strong and more tenacious. 
of verse than of prose. He has endeavoured to make the narrative as simple in 
point of expression, and to adhere as closely to the actual words of the Gospel, as. 
was compatible with a rhythmical composition. |. 


Tue Frve Jovrur, Mysrexres. 
I.—Tue ANNUNOIATION. 


Our holy mother, Mary, “How oan it be,” said Mary, 
A virgin pure was she ; é“ And I a spotless maid ?”’ — 
Espoused unto St. Joseph é“ The Holy Ghost will come to thee, 
In the land of Galilee. 'God's power will overshade. 
Now God sent down to Mary é“ Thy holy one shall therefore be 
His angel Gabriel. The Son of God. Behold 
é“ Hail, full of grace,” the angel said, Elizabeth, thy cousin, 
“The Lord with thee doth dwell. Though now in years grown old, 
‘* And blessed art thou, Mary, “ Shall also be a mother 
Amongst all womankind,’’— Ere many months ye see, 
But Mary at the angel’s word Because no word to God on high 
Was troubled in her mind. Impossible can be.’’ 
“ Oh, be not troubled, Mary, “é Behold,’’ said humble Mary, 
And let thy fears be done: é The handmaid of the Lord,. 
Behold thou hast found grace with God, And let it unto me be done 
And thou shalt bear a son. According to thy word.”’ 
“ It is the name of Jesus The angel parted from her, 
That thou shalt name him by ; And in that day and hour 
He shall be great, and-shall be called © The Son of God took human flesh — 
The Son of the Most High. By his almighty power. 
é“ And God a throne will give him— Glory to God the Father, 
King David’s throne of yore— And his cternal Son, 
And of his kingdom there shall be And glory to the Holy Ghost 
No end for evermore.’’ For ever, Three in One. 
II—Tun Visrrarion. 
Now in those days did Mary Elizabeth beheld her, 
Arise, her steps to bend And rising at the sight, 
Through Judah’s hills to visit Filled with the Holy Ghost she spake 
Elizabeth, her friend. In wonder and. delight. 
In haste she made her journey “ Oh, blessed amongst women, ”” 
Along the mountain road, She cried aloud, “art thou ; 
And entered where Elizabeth And blessed is the holy fruit 


And Zachary abode. Whom thou art bearing now. 





The Children’s Ballad Rosary. 


And how can such a marvel 
Of condescension be, 

That thus the Mother of my Lord 
Should come to visit me ? 


“: For as thy salutation came 
Upon mine ear to sound, 

I felt within my bosom 
For joy mine infant bound. 


é: And blessed art thou,’ Mary, 
Because thou didst believe : 
For all that God foretold to thee 

Fulfilment shall receive.”’ 


“ My soul doth magnifv the Lord '’— 
So Mary raised her voice— 

“: In him my God and Saviour, 
My spirit doth rejoice ; 


“é Since on his lowly handmaid 
His eye hath deigned to rest : 

Bahold, all generations 
Henceforth shall call me blessed. 


“The mighty One and Holy - 
Great things to me hath done ; 

To them that fear him age by ago 
His mercy shall be won.”’ 


And Mary there resided 
Until three months were gone, 
When Saint Elizabeth brought forth 
The holy Baptist John. 


Glory to God the Father, 
And his eternal Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 


HI.—Tun Narrvrry. 


Tae Emperor Augustus 
Had issued his decree 

That all the people of the land 
Enrolled by name should be. 


Now Joseph was descended 
From David's royal race, 
And David's city, Bethlehem, 
Was his appointed place. 


From Nazareth to Bethlehem, 
In winter’s bitter cold, 

With Mary, his espoused wife, 
He came to be enrolled. 


And save in one poor stable, 
No shelter could they find, 

And Mary there brought forth her Son, 
The Saviour of mankind. 


In swaddling clothes she wrapped him, 
And laid him in the stall— 

A manger was the cradle 
Of the King and Lord of all. 


Now in that region shepherds 
Were keeping watch by night, 
When suddenly around them shone 

A glory heavenly bright. 


An angel stood beside them. 
And bade them not to fear, 

é“ For tidings of great joy,” he said, 
“Are what I bring you here. 


‘¢ 'Fhis night is born your Saviour 
At Royal David’s town : 

In swaddling clothes you'll find him 
Laid in a manger down.” 


An army of the host of heaven 
Was with the angel then. 

‘* Glory to God on high,”’’ they sang, 
“ And peace on earth to men.”’ 


In Bethlehem the shepherds 
Beheld their infant Lord ; 

With Mary and with Joseph 
Devoutly they adored. 


With praise and glory unto God 
They did from thence depart ; 

But Mary pondering all these words 
Preserved them in her heart. 


Glory to God the Father, 
And his eternal Son,| 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 


264 The Irish Monthly. 


IV.—T ae Pexsentarion. 


Now Mary after forty days, “é Thy people's glory and a light 
As Moses doth award, On every land to shine.” 

Brought Jesus to the Temple Then spake he unto Mary : 
To present him to the Lord ; “: Behold this child of thine 

And, as the law commanded, ‘‘ Is for the fall of many 
A sacrifice to bring, And for the rising set, 

Two pigeons or two turtle ddves, And for a sign that is to be 
Their humble offering. With contradiction met. 

And while unto Jerusalem “ And through thine own soul, Mary, 
In joy they took their way, A piercing sword shall go, 

On Mary’s breast, or in the arms That thoughts from many hearts revealed 
Of Joseph, Jesus lay. Compassionate may flow.’’ | 

Now in the city Simeon dwelt, And Anna, too, a prophetess 
A man devout and just ; Of eighty years, was there, 

For Israel’s consolation Who served the Temple night and day 
He looked with humble trust. In fasting and in prayer. 

That morning to the Temple, She also made confession 
By the Spirit he was led ; Of the Lord unto his face, 

He took the infant in his arms, And spoke of him to all who hoped 
Gave praise to God, and said : Redemptiou for their race. 

‘¢ Now dost thou let thy servant Glory to God the Father, 
Depart in peace, O Lord, And his eternal Son, 

Mine eyes have thy salvation seen _ And glory to the Holy Ghost 
According to thy word, For ever, Three in One. 


V.—Tue Fowime or Jxesus IR THE Tempte. 


In Nazareth, a city They deemed that he was with them, 
Of distant Galilee, And journeyed for a day, 
Dwelt Jesus, Mary, Joseph, When missing him their hearts were filled. 
The Holy Family. With sorrow and dismay. 
And ever, as the solemn day Among their friends and kinsfolk 
Of Paschal time was near, They sought for him in vain; 
They went unto Jerusalem And then unto Jerusalem 
To worship year by year. Returned in anxious pain. 
And when the years of Jesus And when three days were over, 
Had now to twelve increased, Their Jesus then they saw 
According to the custom Conversing in the Temple 
They went unto the feast, With the doctors of the law. 
And when the days were ended, Hearing them and questioning 
They turned their home to find, And giving his replies ; 
But Jesus in the city And all who heard him marvelled 


Remained alone behind, ! At his words divinely wise. 


Father Pat. | : 265 


His parents also wondered, Returning with them he fulfilled 
And Mary said: “ My son, A child’s obedient part. 
To us who sought thee sorrowing, But Mary treasured all these words 
Say why thou thus hast done?”’ And kept them in her heart. 
And Jesus answered sweetly : Glory to God the Father, 
“Why did ye seek for me ? And his eternal Son, 
And knew ye not my Father’s work And glory to the Holy Ghost, 
My task on earth must be ?”’ For ever, Three in One.* 
0. 
FATHER PAT. 


“L WISHT yer riverence ’ud spake to my little boy. Me 
heart’s broke with him, so it is, an’ I can’t get any good of 
him at all.” 

é“ What has he been doing ? ” 

“ Och, I declare I’m ashamed to tell ye, sir, but he’s always at 
it, an’ he doesn’t mind me a bit, though I do be tellin’ him the 
earth “T1 maybe open some day an’ swalley him up for his 
impidence.” 

“ Dear, dear, this is a sad case. Where is the little rogue?” 
And Father Shehan swung himself off his big bony horse, and 
passing the bridle over a neighbouring post, stood looking at Widow 
Brophy in affected perplexity. 

“T’d be loth to throuble yer riverence, but if ye’d step as far 
as the lane beyant,” jerking her thumb over her shoulder, “ ye’d 
see him at it.” . 

She led the way, an odd little squat figure of a woman, the 
frill of her white cap flapping in the breeze, and her bare feet 
paddling sturdily along the muddy road. ' Father Shehan followed 
her, smiling to himself, and presently they came in sight of the 
delinquent. A  brown-faced, white-headed, bare-legged boy, 
standing perfectly still opposite the green bank to the right of the 
lane. A little cross made of two peeled sticks tied together was 
stuck upright in the moss, in front of which stood a broken jam 
pot, while a tattered prayer book lay open before him. A large 
newspaper with a hole in the middle, through which he had passed 
his curly head, supplemented his ordinary attire; a rope was tied 


* The Sorrowful and Glorious Mysteries will follow in our June and July Numbers. 


266 The Irish Monthly. 


round his waist, and a ragged ribbon hung from his erm. Behind 
him, squatting devoutly on their heels, with little brown paws 
demurely folded, and lips rapidly moving, were some half dozen 
smaller urchins, while one, with newspaper decorations somewhat 
similar to young Brophy’s, knelt in front. They were all as 
orderly and quiet as possible, and Father Shehan was at first 
somewhat at a loss to discover the cause of Mrs. Brophy’s indigna- 
tion. But presently Pat turned gravely round, extended his arms, 
and broke the silence with a vigorous “‘ Dominus vobiscum !” 

““ Et cum spir’ tu tuo,” went the urchin at his side in life-like 
imitation of his elders at the hill-side chapel. . 

The mystery. was explained now: Pat was saying mass ! 

“Did ye ever see the like o’ that, Father ? ” whispered Mrs. 
Brophy in deeply scandalized tones ; then making a sudden dart at 
her luckless offspring, she tore off his vestments and flung them to - 
the winds, and with her bony hand well twisted into his ragged 
collar—the better to administer an occasional shake—she hauled 
him up for judgment. 

“Gently, Mrs. Brophy, gently,” said the priest. “ Don’t be 
frightened, my poor lad. I’m not going to scold you. That is a 
very curious game of yours—are you pretending to be a priest ?” 

“ Aye, yer riverence.” 

“ Ah, ye young villain,” began his mother, but Father Shehan 
checked her. 

é“ Hush, now, hush, my good woman. Tell me, Pat, do you 
think it is right to make fun of holy things ? ”’ 

“I wasn’t makin’ fun, sir,” whimpered Pat, touched to the 
quick. “I was just thinkin’ I raly was a priest, an’, an’ sayin 
mass as well as I could.” 

“Well, well, don’t cry, that’s a good boy. Maybe you really . 
will be saying mass some day. Whoknows? But you must bea 
very good boy—and you must not think you are a priest yet. 
You will have to be ordained, you know, before you can say mass. 
Now, run off and find some other game.” 

Pat grinned gratefully through his tears, wrenched himself 
from his mother’s grasp, and, surrounded by his ragged followers, 
disappeared over the hedge. 

_ “wish we could make a priest of him,” said Father Shehan 
as he retraced his steps, “he is a good lad.” . 
“Why thin he is, yer riverence, he ig,” agreed the mother 





Father Pat. 267 


with the delightful inconsistency of her kind. “He is, indeed, 
very good. An’ why wouldn’t he be good? Sure I bait him 
well. Troth ye’d hear him bawlin’ at the cross-roads many a 
time. But isit Aim a priest? Ah now, that’s the way ye do be 
goin’on ; ye like to be makin’ fun of us all, yer riverence, s2 ye do. 
The likes of him a priest? Well now!” 

She burst out laughing very good humouredly, for in spite of 
her assumption of severity, there was not, as she would have said 
herself, “a betther-natured crathur” anywhere than Mrs. 
Brophy. ! 

“Stranger things have come to pass,” said Father Shehan. 
“ But I fear there is not much hope in this case. To make him a 
priest you must give him an education, and to give him an educa- 
tion you must find money. And as neither you nor I know where 
to look for that, it’s a poor look out.” 

““Troth it is, yer riverence. God bless ye, ye always say 
somethin’ plisant to us anyway. Good evenin’, yer riverence, safe 
home!” 

Long after the priest was out of sight Mrs. Brophy stood at 
the door with a plaasant smile on her face. Only for the education, 
which would cost money, on’y for that her Pat was fit to be a 
priest. Didn’t his reverence say so? It was a great thought. 
Her little white-headed Pat, in spite of the tricks and “ mis- 
cheevousness”’ in which he indulged to the full as much as any 
other lad of his age, even he might one day stand before the altar, 
his hands have clasped the chalice, his voice called down the 
Redeemer from on high. Tears of rapture filled her eyes at the 
mere thought of a priest: A priest of God! To the simple faith 
of this good poor woman there was no greater height of blessed- 
ness or grandeur. 

“ Oh, mother, if I could on’y be a rale priest ! ” Pat had sighed 
many atime. And she had bidden him “g’long out o’ that an” 
not dar’ say such a thing!” But now it was a different matter. 
Only for the money Father Shehan had said the thing was pos- 
sible. Only for the money! Just what she had not got. Ah, if 
a mother’s heart’s blood would have done as well! 

But one never knows what strange things come to pass in this. 
queer world! ‘Father Shehan had distinctly said that he could 
not find the funds needful for Pat’s education for the priesthood, 
and yet, through his instrumentality, the boy was enabled to fol- 
low his vocation. 


268 The Irish Monthly. 


Lo and behold! Father Shehan had a friend who lived in 
Liverpool,'a very rich man, who was also very pious and charitable. 
Of this good gentleman the worthy priest suddenly bethought 
himself one day when Mrs. Brophy spoke of the intense wish 
which her boy still had, and the manner in which he was 
accustomed to “ moither” her respecting it. To the rich Liver- 
pool friend the poor Irish priest accordingly wrote, with the result 
that the former agreed to undertake the cost of Pat’s education, 
merely stipulating that the lad was to be brought up at Bt. 
Edward’s College, and to devote his services when ordained to the 
Liverpool diocese. 

The rapture, the gratitude of both son and mother, cannot be 
‘described. The long separation which must ensue, the life of self- 
‘denial which lay before the one, of perpetual poverty to which the 
other was now doomed—for Pat was her only son, and she had 
formerly looked forward to the days when he would be able to 
help and work for her—all was accepted not only with resignation, 
but with joy. Was not Pat to be a priest P 

The day after his departure Mrs. Brophy, donning her cloak 
and big bonnet, with ita violet ribbons and neat border, forcing her 
feet, moreover, into the knitted stockings and stout boots, which 
regard for her bunions caused her to reserve chiefly for Sundays, Mrs. 
Brophy, I say, went to call on Father Shehan and to make a 
roquest. 

She wanted “a bades,” a rosary which was to be kept till such 
time as Pat, endowed with full authority, would be able to bless it 
for her. 

Father Shehan laughingly produced a large, brown, serviceable 
one, which the widow reverently kissed and then tucked away in 
her bosom. 

“Now, whinever I feel a bit lonesome, I']] be havin’ a look at 
this,” she said, nodding confidentially to her pastor. “II take 
out me holy bades, an’ I'll rattle thim an’ kiss thim, and say to 
meself ‘ cheer up, Biddy Brophy, yer own little boy “11 be blessin’ 
them for ye some day, with the help o” God.’ ” 

é Well done, Biddy! I hope you won't be often lonesome,” 
said the priest with a smile, in which there was a good deal of 
compassion, for there were tears on her tanned cheeks though she 
spoke gaily. It was to God that this good, brave little woman had 

given her all—but it was her a// nevertheless. 


Father Pat. | 269 


“é Isn't it well for me?” said Biddy. é“ Bedad I do be thinkin” 
I’m dhramin’ sometimes!” 

And with her old-fashioned curtsey-bob the widow withdrew, 
but as she walked down the road the priest remarked that she held 
her apron to her face. 

One day, a month or two afterwards, Father Shehan met her 
on the road, and stopped to speak to her. 

<‘Yer riverence, you're the very wan I wanted to see,” she 
said. ‘ D’ye know what I do be thinkin’? Will I have to be 
callin’ Pat Father, or yer riverence, whin he’s a priest? ‘Troth, 
that'll be a quare thing ! ” 

“T think, Biddy, in this instance it won’t be necessary to be so 

You may venture safely to call him by his name.” 

“ Ah, but he'll be a ra/e priest, ye know, yer riverence, as good 
& wan as y’are yerself,” cried the mother, a little jealous of her 
boy’s dignity, which the last remark appeared to set at nought. 

“é Musha, it wouldn't, sound right for me to be callin’ him Pat! 
Pat, an’ him a priest! I'll tell ye what ”’—struck by a sudden 
thought—“ yer riverence, I'll call him Father Pat. That'll be it, 
Father Pat ! ” 

“ Yes, that will do very nicely, indeed,” said the priest, com- 
posing his features to a becoming gravity, though there was some- 
thing as comical as touching in the widow’s sudden respect for the 
imp whose person but a short time before she had been wont to 
beat with scant ceremony. “At this moment, Mrs. Brophy’— 
consulting his watch—‘ it is probably recreation time at St. 
Edward’s, and Father Pat is very likely exercising these fine sturdy 
legs of his at cricket or football, and trying the strength of his 
healthy young lungs by many a good shout. But it is well to look 
forward.” 

é“ Ah, father, sure where would I be if I didn’t look forward ? 
It isn’t what me little boy is doin’ now that I care to be thinkin’ 
about, but what he’s goin’ to do, glory be to God! ” 

It was indeed chiefly the thought of the good times to come 
that kept Mrs. Brophy alive during the many long hard years 
which intervened. 

é Bad times,”’ hunger, loneliness, rapidly advancing age on one 
side, and on the other her blessed hope, her vivid faith—and Pat’s 
letters. Oh, those letters! every one of them from the first scrawl 
in round hand to the more formed characters, in which he an- 


4 


270 The Irish Monthly. 


nounced his promotion to deaconship, begmning with the hope 
that she was quite well as he was at present, and ending with the 
formula that he would say no more that time—such items as they 
further contained being of the baldest and simplest description— 
were ever documents so treasured before? So tenderly kissed, so 
often wept on, so triumphantly cited as miracles of composition ! 
Mrs. Brophy was a happy woman for weeks after the arrival of 
these letters, and was apt to produce them a dozen times a day jn a 
somewhat limp and crushed condition from under her little plaid 
shawl for the edification of sympathetic neighbours. 

“T hard from Father Pat to-day,” she would say long before 
her son could claim that title, while to the young and such as she 
wished particularly to impress she would allude to him distantly as 
“ his riverence.” 

What was Biddy’s joy when he at last wrote that he was really 
to be ordained at a not distant date, and named the day on which 
he was to say his first mass? How she cried for happiness, and 
clapped her hands, and rocked backwards and forwards! How 
proudly she got out “the bades”’ and rattled them, and kissed 
them, and hugged herself at the thought of the wonderful blessing 
which her “ little boy ” would so soon impart to them. 

“If you could only hear his first mass, Biddy,” said Father 
Shehan, when she went to rejoice him with the tidings. 

“ Ah, father, jewel, don’t be makin’ me too covetious. Sure 
that’s what I do be sthrivin’ to put out o’ me head. I know I 
can’t be there, but the thought makes me go wild sometimes. If 
it was anywhere in ould Ireland Td thramp till the two feet 
dropped off me, but I’d be there on’y the say, yer riverence, the 
say is too much for me entirely! I can’t git over that. Saint 
Pether himself “ud be hard set to walk that íar.” 

Here she laughed her jolly good-humoured laugh, wrinkling 
up her eyes and wagging her head in keen enjoyment of her own 
sally, but suddenly broke off with a sniff and a back-handed wipe 
of her eyes. 

“ Laws, Father, it ud make me too happy !” 

“ Do you really mean that you would walk all the way to 
Dublin if you had money enough to pay for your passage to Liver- 
pool P ” 

é Heth I would, an’ twice as far, your riverence. Wouldn't 
I stage it? If I had the price o’ me ticket, there’d be no houldin’ 








Father Pat. 271 


me back. I can step out wid the best whin I like, an’ sure anyone 
"ud give me a bit an’ a sup whin I tould them I was goin’ to see 
me little fellow say his first mass.” 

After this, strange to say, “the price” of Biddy’s ticket was 
forthcoming. Poor as Father Shehan was, he managed to pro- 
. duce the few shillings needful to frank her from the North Wall 
to Clarence Dock. Her faith in the charity and piety of her 
country folk was rewarded, the “ bit an the sup,” and even the 
“‘shake-down” in a corner, more willingly found as often as she 
needed it, and in due time, tired, dusty, and desperately sea-sick, 
she arrived in Liverpool. 

“ Glory be to God!” ejuculated Biddy, delighted to find her- 
self once more on dry land. Then she chucked her black velvet 
bonnet forward, shook out the folds of her big cloak, clutched her 
bundle, and set out undauntedly for Everton, pausing almost at 
every street corner to enquire her way. 

“ Lonneys ! isn’t England the dirty place!” she said to her- 
self, as she tramped along through the grimy Liverpool slums. 
But as she drew near her destination wonder and disgust were 
alike forgotten in the thought of the intense happiness which was. 
actually within her grasp. She was to see Pat, upon whose face 
she had not looked once during all these years, and to see him a 
priest! 'To be present at his first mass, to ask his blessing—ah to 
think that her little boy would be able to give her “ the priest’s 
blessin’ !”’—and last, but not least, she would give him her beads 
to bless. She had not told him of her intention to be present on 
this great occasion, partly because, as she told Father Shehan, “ it 
was betther not to be distractin’ him to much,”’ and partly because 
she thought ‘his joy at seeing her would be heightened by his 
surprise. No wonder that Widow Brophy walked as though 
treading on air, instead of greasy pavements. 

It was touching to see her kneeling in the church, with eager 
eyes fixed on the sacristy door and the rosary clutched fast between 
her fingers, but it was still more touching to watch her face when 
that door opened and her son at last came forth. So that was 
‘Pat! “ Bless us an’ save us,” would she ever have know him P 
And yet he had very much the same face as the little bare-legged 
child who had first “celebrated” under the hedge, a face as 
innocent and almost as boyish, if not quite so brown ; but he had 
certainly grown a good deal, and his Latin was of a different 


272 The Irish Monthly. 


quality, and there was moreover about him that which the mother’s 
eyes had been so quick. to see, the dignity of the priest, the 
recollectedness of one used to familiar converse with his God. 
Who shall describe the glory of that first mass for both son and 
mother ? Who indeed could venture to penetrate into the sacred 
privacy of that son’s feelings as he stood thus before the altar, his 
face pale, his voice quivering, his young hands trembling as they 
busied themselves about their hallowed task! But the mother ! 
groaning from very rapture of heart, beating her happy breast, 
praying with so much fervour that the whole congregation might 
hear her, weeping till her glad eyes were almost too dim to discern 
the white-robed figure of her son—surely we can all picture her to 
ourselves. 

When the young priest was unvesting after mass, there came a. 
little tap at the sacristy door, a little, modest, tremulous tap, and on 
being invited to enter a strangely familiar figure met his gaze : 

é Father Pat,” said Biddy, in a choked voice, and dropping a 
shakey curtsey, “I’ve come to ax your riverence if ye ll bless me 
bades for me, an’ an’ will you give me yer bless——” 

She tried to fall on her knees, but the mother instinct was too 
strong for her, and with a sudden sob she flung her arms round his 
neck. 
é“ Me boy ! ” she cried, “ sure it’s me that must bless ye first ! ” 

M. E. Francis. 


PIGEONHOLE PARAGRAPHS. 


Some people will never begin anything, they are so much afraid of 
being unable to end it. And, no doubt, this view derives its support 
from Connolly’s Folly and other such names current in all countries, 
and still more from what our Divine Redeemer himself says about 
the man who wished to build a tower and could not finish it. How- 
ever, the present writer is profoundly convinced that no undertaking, 
big or little, can ever be brought to an end unless it is first brought 
to a beginning. In this world of beginnings what matters it that 
certain tasks should be left incomplete at death, provided that death 
finds the work of life itself in a fair approximation to completeness ? 
& * * 








Pigeonhole Paragraphs. 213 


In another part of this Number, we resume, in the hope of bring- 
ing to some sort of conclusion, a biographical sketch which has long 
been left unfinished. Circumstances which need not be explained 
hindered the author of “ The Walkiug Trees” from bringing that 
brilliant phantasy to its full completeness in our pages, where the 
last statement about Leo in the middle of our fourth volume is given 
in the sensational form: “ Hurrah! hurrah! he is off with the 
Forked Lightning.” Probably his subsequent adventures were then, 
intended to be recorded at greater length ; but, when the tale 
reappeared as a handsome illustrated volume, this winding-up process 
is condensed into the following paragraphs :— 

* * s 

How it was that the forked lightning flung him straight down to 
earth again without breaking his bones, and more wonderful still, 
shot him right through the closed nursery window without smashing 
a pane, Leo never could quite understand; but certain it is that he 
felt himself suddenly pitched into his bed with a terrible shock, and 
had scarcely time to get his head up again to see the fiery heels of the 
lightning vanishing out of the window. 

A thunderstorm was raging all round his father’s house, and the 
little boy, though he was very sorry his adventures were over, could 
not but feel glad enough to be lying at that moment snug and safe in 
his bed. 

His head was aching, and the next day Leo was found to have a 
alight attack of fever: no wonder, you will say, after all his extra- 
ordinary experiences and exertions ! 

‘When he was getting better, and his dear papa used to come and 
sit by his bed and put grapes into his mouth, Leo related all that had 
happened to him in the clouds. 

He told his papa the whole story of his wanderings; but Nurse 
and Patty he would not take into his confidence. They would be sure 
to laugh, he said, and perhaps would refuse to believe him. 

Papa did not laugh, but smiled pleasantly and patted his boy’s 
little hands. 

“ Put it all out of your head for the present, Leo,” he said, “and 
make haste to get strong. And when you are able to run and walk 
with me in the fields again, then you and I will talk this curious 


matter over.” 
* * * 


A San Francisco subscriber puts a question to us which 
perhaps some of our readers will enable us to answer :— 


“Who was ‘Thomas Kitchin, Geographer, and Hydrographer to His 
Majesty?’ Ihave picked up an excellent map of Ireland with no date but the 


Vou. xv. No. 203. 69 


274 The Irish Monthly. 


above name in one corner. It is evidently very ancient, for the names are not 
(many of them at least) in present use. I cannot find this Thomas Kitchin in any 


Biographical Dictionary.”’ . R R 


The Catholic News of New York continues to give trouble 
to several inoffensive individuals by addressing this Magazine 
every month as “Tue Irish Monruty, Lonpon, Enctanp.” 
Time is running out so fast that we prefer not to receive this 
journal at all. A “nowsy journal” is the more dangerous as a 
distraction; and one is bound to avoid distractions and to keep 
one’s self as far as possible in the proximate occasion of doing 
one’s duty. But, if this journal insists on visiting us, let it remember 


that the capital of Ireland is Dublin. 
* = * 
Aubrey de Vere gives this finely critical estimate of Robert 
Browning’s peculiar genius :— 


Gone from us! that strong singer of late days— 
Sweet singer should be strong—who, tarrying here, 
Chose still rough music for his themes austere, 
Hard-headed, aye, but tender-hearted lays, 
Carefully careless, garden half, half maze. 
His thoughts he sang, deep thoughts to thinkers dear, 
Now flashing under gleam of smile or tear, 
Now veiled in language like a breezy haze 
Chance-pierced by sunbeams from the lake it covers. 
He sang man’s ways—not heights of sage or Saint, 
Not highways broad, not haunts endeared to lovers ; 
He sang life’s byways, sang its angles quaint, 
Ita Runic lore inscribed on stave or stone ; 
Song’s short-hand strain—its key oft his alone. 

* & * 


Browning himself, when asked by Mr. Edmond Gosse to 
select from his works four poems of moderate length which might 
be taken as representing him fairly, answered thus :— 


19 Warwick Crescent, W., March 15, ’85. 
My dear Gosse,—‘‘ Four Poems, of moderate length, which represent their 

author fairly” :—if I knew what ‘‘ moderation ” exactly meant, the choice would 
be easier. Let me say—at a ventare— 

Lyrical: ‘*Saul’’ or “ Abt Vogler.”’ 

Narrative: ‘‘ A Forgiveness.” 

Dramatic: ‘‘ Caliban on Setebos.”’ 

Idyllic (in the Greek sense): ‘‘ Clive.” 
Which means that, being restricted to four dips in the lucky-bag, I should not 
object to be judged by these samples—so far as these go—for there is somewhat 
behind atill ! 

Ever truly yours, 
RosErt BRownine. 





Pigeonhole Paragraphs. 275 


A. Sister of Mercy from the west of Ireland sends a curious 
testimony to the linguistic skill of the late Father John O’Car- 
roll, 8.J., which deserves to be joined with those that we quoted 
from Professor Max Muller and other experts, none of whom, we 
trust, will die in a poorhouse like our new witness :— 

“ We were much interested in the short memoir of Father O'Carroll. He gave 
ws two Retreats in Tuam and one here. While here, he had a poor old man 
engaged to walk with and talk Irish to him, and he won the old fellow’s heart 
eompletely. The poor man spent his last two years in tho workhouse and died 
there; and he used often to talk about ‘Father John’ in a rapture. ‘He was a 
great warrant to talk Irish,’ he said.’’ 

* “w * 


Have you ever read Lord Byron’s description of the Battle of 
Albuera in French prose? If so, you will understand the marvellous 
change wrought in thoughts when expressed in their proper metrical 
form ; and you will make large allowances for the following tribute 
paid in Irish verse to the same Father O’Carroll. It appeared in a 
recent number of Zhe Gaelsc Journal. Would that our readers and our 
printers and our editor were competent to reproduce and appreciate 
the original! The first words of this literal translation show that this 
Irish Jesuit, with Celtic name and heart and tongue, is already dead 
more than a year :— 


“* Suddenly in March, the month of transition, the hour struck for our dear 
Father John. The assigned term was come; full were his days of the best deeds ; 
no delay in the way did he make, and earned as reward of his labour an eternal 
crown. Well ordered was his life. I bid him a hundred farewelle. When death 
ealled him, he was on the watch, though it came unaware like a thief. Our strong 
one is taken from us. Notin upbraiding are we of Thee, O God !—to Thee does 
every one belong—but he was so friendly, wise, upright, gentle, he shall not be 
snatched away from us without sorrow to us. Pure was his heart; dignified and 
lofty were his aims. In Erin his like is not now to be found.”’ 

* &w * 


Let me, without any permission, give an extract from a private 
letter from one who has done a great deal of the most solid work for 
Catholic literature, and who, if he liked, could do much for it also in 
the department to which his remarks refer :— 


‘‘ Did you ever read the Tale of Tintern by the late Father Caswall? If not, 
ask your Father Librarian to get it at once. Burns and Oates, only two shillings, 
I think. Itis one of the most charming poems in the language as a poem, and 
quite unique as being about Our Lady. If you get it at once, it will inspire you 
with a beautiful article for May. They will, of course, send you the second 
edition; but it is a curious fact that the first edition was written in ten syllable 
lines, the second in eight syllables. But, though it is entirely rewritten, not one 
word is said by the author regarding the change. The second edition is greatly 
improved.”’ 


276 The Irish Monthly. 


THE DALADA MALIGAWA. 


()*= of the principal sights in Ceylon is the Dalada Maligawa, 
or Great Temple of the Sacred Tooth, which is the most 
celebrated Buddhist Temple of the East. This temple is in 
Kandy, which town is continually thronged with pilgrims from 
India, China, Thibet, eto., who come to pay their respects to the 
Dalada. The Maligawa is a large octagon in shape, and consists 
of the library, priests’ apartments, the shrine chamber, and a 
larger room where the people perform their devotions. In the 
library are some wonderful books, the Pitakas or supposed teach- 
ings of Gandama, the veritable Buddha. These are mostly 
written on thin strips of wood, bound together in piles by silken 
strings; some have magnificent covers of gold or silver studded 
with precious stones, and one book consists of sheets of silver for 

leaves, with the writing painted in the ancient Pali character, 
which has been unused for thousands of years. In the outer 
sanctuary there are figures of Buddha standing, sitting, and 
reclining. Two sitting figures, about a foot high, are cut out of 
pure crystal, the intrinsic value of which must be enormous. The 
smooth-shaven, yellow-robed Buddhist priest who was our cicerone, 
after showing us these figures, coolly held out a plate for our sub-’ 
scription. I never fully realized till I saw these images what the 
saying “As clear as crystal” meant. The candle held behind 
them showed them to be perfectly transparent, every line and 
feature being accurately distinct. 

The shrine-chamber where the Dalada or tooth is kept, is very 
small. As it is considered a great concession to show even the 
shrine to any but the faithful, we were greatly honoured at being 
allowed to see it, and, of course, dropped another rupee into the 
plate. The relic is kept under seven well-shaped cases, which fit 
one inside the other, the outer case being about five feet in height ; 
this one is silver gilt, the others are beautifully wrought in gold, 
ornamented with precious stones, and the central part of one is a 
huge emerald. The size of the tooth ought to convince any sane 
person that it never came out of a human head, but rather a caput- 
asini; but the poor benighted Sinhalese has implicit faith in his 
priests, and never would he dare doubt their word for an instant. 








Notes on New Books. 277 


The temple is Kept in anything but a clean state, and the whole 
‘atmosphere is impregnated with the odour of rank incense, oocoa- 
nut oil, and the heavily-perfumed flowers surrounding the shrine. 

It is strange that in the multitude of superstitions of which 
Buddhism consists, that there should linger many traces of early 
Apostolic lessons. Such, for example, as a belief in a kind of 
Purgatory where souls will undergo a certain amount of punish- 
ment before attaining the Nirvhana or blessed state of oblivion. 
But how sad that riches are so profusely used in the decoration of 
idol worship, when temples of the true God are so often bare and 
unadorned. However, our missionaries are making rapid progress 
in the lovely isle of Ceylon, and we may surely hope that in the 
future—distant perhaps, yet certain—all the inhabitants of ancient 
Taprobane will believe, not in a false idol, but in Him who 
redeemed us by the cross, Christ Jesus Our Lord. 


M. Srenson. 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. “The Poems of William Leighton’? (London: Elliot Stock) 
appear in a complete edition which is very elegantly produced. The 
author was born at Dundee in 1841, and died at Liverpool in his 28th 
year. His poems have already been published in various forms, and 
this edition ends with a dozen pages of closely printed criticisms, of 
course of a favourable kind, from a hundred journals, some of which 
have considerable literary reputation. Yet the book seems to us to 
betray hardly any inspiration, but only a fair amount of good taste 
and culture. ‘The Leaf of Woodruff” and “ Baby Died To-day” 
are Mr. Leighton’s best. 


2. “The Development of Old English Thought,” by Brother 
Azarias of the Brothers of the Christian Schools (New York: Apple- 
ton and Co.), is in a third edition, though the preface to the secon dis 
dated as recently as October 20, 1889. Brother Azarias is an Irish- 
man, & native of Tipperary, a member of the French Congregation of 
Christian Brothers, and, if we mistake not, president of Manhattan 
College. He is a valued contributor to the chief Catholic magazines, 
& man of wide and accurate reading, and master of a clear and 
vigorous style. The present volume weaves together very agreeably 
the results of the studies devoted of late years to the Anglo-Saxon 





Se me -unvm— 


I 


278 The Irish Monthly. 


literature. Brother Azarias is laudably particular in specifying the 
authorities that he follows, yet his erudition is anything but cumbrous, 
and his disquisitions flow on pleasantly, just as if each chapter were 
not the substance of sundry volumes. The work is addressed to the 
general public: otherwise two months would not have sufficed to 
exhaust the second edition. 


3. Lady Martin’s excellent translation of the French Life of Don 
Bosco, founder of the Salesian Society, has very soon reached a second 
edition, and we are sure that many other editions will be required. It 
is @ fresh and interesting piece of biography, an addition of per- 
manent interest to our biographical stores. Our Irish translator has. 
performed her duty admirably ; and the publishers have produced the 
book n as pleasantly readable a shape as could be desired. 


4. We are a little puzzled by the pious pamphlet entitled “ Hail 
Jesus; or, Acts upor ‘he Life and Passion of our Saviour Jesus 
Christ, by the late Venerable F. Augustine Baker” (London: Burns 
and Oates). Who is this Father Baker? If a modern, why called 
“Venerable.” If the ancient author of ‘‘ Sancta Sophia,” why call 
him ‘the late,” as if he had died last year? It is sometimes hard to’ 
tell when one is so long dead as to be no longer ‘the late”; but that 
is not the case with regard to this collection of pious affections, which 
ought to have been accompanied by some note concerning its author- 
ship, etc. 


5. Many of our readers will be interested for the preacher’s sake 
in “The Church of Christ, her Mission and her Sacrifice: two Sermons 
preached by the Rev. Patrick Dillon, D.D., St. James’s, Newark, New 
Jersey” (New York: Michael Walsh, 21 Park Row). But these 
sermons are well worth reading for their own sake. They are “ dedi- 
cated to the Very Rev. John Bartley, Provincial of the Irish Carmelites 
of Ancient Observance, by a Former Pupil,” and they were both 
preached in the Church of Our Lady of the Scapular, New York, in 
which Irish Carmelite Fathers have laboured for only two years. The 
first sermon on the Mission of the Catholic Church was delivered on 
the occasion of the dedication of this church last December ; and the 
other on the great Christian Sacrifice was preached as recently as Feb- 
ruary 23rd in the present year, when Bishop Conroy consecrated the 
altar. Both of them display to advantage Dr. Dillon’s learning and 
eloquence. 

6. Mrs. Charles Martin on the title-page of her new work, ‘The 
Life of St. Justin” (London: Burns and Oates) is described as 
é“ author of Zhe Life of St. Jerome, etc.” It was fitting to connect this 
sketch with her previous essay in ecclesiastical biography, but it is 





Notes on New Books. 279 


well to remember how many excellent contributions to the lighter 
departments of literature are modestly veiled under that etcetera. Bt. 
Justin’s mass and office have only recently been extended to the whole 
Church by Leo XIII., and there is a certain timeliness in Mrs. Mar- 
tin’s endeavour to make his career and character better known. She 
has used with skill and care the materials placed at her disposal ; but 
these materials are, of course, not so abundant or interesting as in the 
case of St. Jerome. The present work is indeed much shorter.- The 
publishers have given an attractive appearance to this useful and 
edifying account of the great Christian Apologist, who, as Mrs. 
Martin shows in her preface, has a message for the world even at the 
present stage of the world’s intellectual and religious life. 

7. ‘Marie and Paul,” by “ Our Little Woman” (London: Burns 
and Oates) has no year of publication marked on its title-page, and it 
certainly has no right to hide itself or to parade itself among a batch 
of new books, for it has been in existence for some years. This isa 
Justification of those reviewers who refuse to notice an undated book. 
The binding of this slight sketch of fifty small pages is pretty, and 
the tone is pious. There is some confusion in the naming of the 
persons concerned. Are they French or English ? Is “ Marie” 
pronounced as well as spelled in French fashion ? If so, “ Paul” 
ought to rhyme with dull. Ominous word, but rather appropriate in 
the present context. 


8. The 4th of May is the day appointed in the Carthusian Order 
for the feast of their English Martyrs. The publication, therefore, is 
timely of a translation of Dom Maurice Cheney's contemporary Latin 
“ History of the Sufferings of Eighteen Carthusians in England, who, 
refusing to take part in schism and to separate themselves from the 
unity of the Catholic Church, were cruelly martyred’? (London : 
Burns and Oates). It is produced in the elegant but somewhat in- 
appropriate form of a large and thin quarto, such as Mr. John Old- 
castle’s memorial of Cardinal Newman. 


9. Messrs. Benziger of New York, Cincinnati and Chicago, have 
published a good translation of the Life of Father Charles Sire, 8.J., 
which is very emphatically recommended by the Provincial of the 
Jesuits in New York and by Cardinal Gibbons. The French Jesuit 
was born in 1828 and was buried at sea in 1864, on his way home 
from a missionary life in the island of Bourbon. His life is written 
by one of his’ three Sulpitian brothers, but of course the materials 
have been chiefly furnished by his religious brethren of the Society. 
‘Very minute and{edifying accounts are given of his discharge of the 
various duties of a Jesuit, in colleges‘especially, with many extracts 


280 The Irish Monthly. 


from his spiritual papers. This ‘simple biography” is far 
beyond the average in worth and extent. | 

10. The same publishers have bought out the sixteenth volume 
(‘*Sermons for Sundays”) of the Centenary Edition of the works of 
S. Alphonsus Liguori, which his American sons are editing with very 
great care. 

11. In a second edition and in a very pretty cover we welcome 
again “ A Shrine and a Story,” by the author of Zyborne (London : 
Burns and Oates). It relates chiefly to St. Joseph’s, Portland Row, 
Dublin ; but the pages bristle with interesting names—Dr. Blake of 
Dromore, Father Henry Young, Ellen Kerr, and (to mention one 
amongst the living) Mr. James Murphy, who has laboured so long 
for this Home for virtuous single females. Mother Magdalen Taylor 
gives muny interesting extracts from Lady Georgiana Fullerton’s 
letters. Yet, for many, the most interesting of these pages will be 
those devoted to the holy and amiable memory of the unknown Irish- 
woman, Ellen Kerr. 

12. “The Church of My Baptism,” by Francis King (London: 
Burns and Oates), is a very clever and full explanation of the reasons 
why the writer returned to the One Church. Its Unity isa sufficiently 
distinctive attribute. The same publishers have sent us Mr. William 
Garrat’s very full account of the Holy House of Loretto, which is 
illustrated by several maps and pictures. A very exquisite little book 
for May is Mr. J.S. Fletcher’s ‘Our Lady's Month” (London: R. 
Washbourne). A useful addition to the publications of the Catholic 
Truth Society is ‘‘To Calvary: a New Method of making the Stations 
of the Cross,” translated by L. M. Kenny from the French of Father 
Abt, S.J. Finally we can only mention a pamphlet on the “ Vagus 
Treatment of Cholera”? by Dr. Alexander Harkin of Belfast (London: 
Renshaw), and, to end our May notices more appropriately, two bymns 
to the Blessed Virgin, with music by Mr. J. J. Johnson of Dublin. 

13. Although coming very late, our May Number must mention 
“ The Month of Mary, according to the spirit of St. Francis of Sales,” 
by Don Gaspar Gilli, translated and abridged from the Italian by a 
Sister of the Institute of Charity, and published with his wonted taste 
skill and care by Mr. R. Washbourne, 18 Paternoster Row, London, 
Although abridged by the translator, it runs to 250 pages, and is 
certainly one of the best and most solid of the many books bearing 
similar names. All concerned in its English presentation have done 
their part well. And so have the Rev. Albert Barry, C. 88. R., and 
his printers with regard to the Venerable Sarnelli’s exquisitely 
devotional little treatise on the Holy Rosary. It will help many to 
perform much better their favourite daily exercise of filial piety. 


SR 





JUNE, 1890. 
I—I—1£IIT— 


A STRIKING CONTRAST. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE MISER OF KINGSCOURT,”’ ‘‘ THE STRANGE ADVENTURES 
OF LITTLE SNOWDROP,”’ ETC. 


CHAPTER XI. 
ANXIOUS DAYS. 


AVING learned that Lady Ashfield had left England for an 

indefinite period, Madge resolved to put her out of her 

thoughts, and forget, if possible, the bright hopes that her promises 
to Dora, on the day of the accident, had raised in her mind. 

She was busy at the school; and during the long hours spent at 
the piano, or hammering history and grammar into some twelve or 
fourteen lazy girls, she had little time to wonder or speculate over 
Lady Ashfield’s absence or return to town. 

But Dora’s work was not so absorbing.. And from morning till 
night she thought of nothing but her next meeting with the kind lady 
who had promised so earnestly to help her and Madge in Landon. 
So each evening, as she returned from the dressmaker’s, where she 
spent her day, unless the weather were very bad, she would walk 
round by Belgrave Street, and, standing on the opposite side of the 
road, gaze up at the windows. 

“When she comes back,” she would say to herself, ‘‘ the shutters 
will be open, the blinds pulled up. Then Madge and I will ring the 
bell, and ask to see dear Lady Ashfield. Until then I shall never go 
nearer the house than this.” 

And so Mrs. Downside never saw the girls, and Lord Ashfield’s 
packet lay forgotten in a drawer. 

Day after day, week after week, Dora suffered the same keen 
disappointment, The house remained shut up. Lady Ashfield did 
not return. 

This wearing anxiety, this feverish longing for something to 

Vou. xvi. No. 204. 70 


282 The Irish Monthly. 


happen, was very trying to a girl of Dora’s sensitive nature. It made 
her restless and unsettled, and her work became a trouble to her. 
But she did her best to shake off the feeling of disgust and struggled 
bravely on. 

At last, however, the heavy atmosphere of the workroom, the long 
hours and close work, began to tell’ upon her health. She grew 
irregular in her attendance at Mdme. Garniture’s establishment, and 
before the end of the second year she was obliged to stay at home 
altogether. This was a terrible grief to her. She was now unable to 
earn any money, and so became quite dependent on her sister. And 
Madge’s salary was so small. Barely enough to support one, it was 
now called upon to do double duty, and provide both girls with the 
necessaries of life. 

‘Lady Ashfield may come home soon, Madge—she is sure to come 
soon,” cried Dora feverishly one evening, when her sistet had come 
back from the school a little earlier than usual. ‘‘It is now nearly 
two years since she went away. If she were in London, she might 
give me some work todo. Iam better now. I could sew here and 
help you. We have no money left. Oh, Madge, what shall we do to 
pay our rent?” 

‘‘ Darling, do not fret,” said Madge, putting her arm round the 
girl and kissing her lovingly. ‘‘Something will surely turn up.” She 
smiled. ‘Don’t you remember how dear Miss Matilda used always 
say that? So don’t cry, pet. Our landlord has promised to wait. 
That in itself is a boon.” 

“Horrid old man! I wish we had stayed with Mrs. Skinner. 
She was so kind and ”—— 

“ But, my love, you know her terms were impossible.” 

“I know, I know. If only Lady Ashfield would come home.” 

‘Dora, I do not believe in Lady Ashfield. My only hope, my 
constant prayer is that I may soon come across the Atherstones in 
some way or another.” 

“Well, we have both a different plan for getting out of our 
present difficulties,” said Dora with a faint smile. . “ Neither is likely 
to succeed, I fear. But oh, my darling, if I could only work 
and help, I would not find it so hard, so very hard to wait.” 

And two large tears rolled slowly down the girl’s pale cheek. 

é“ Now, I tell you what I will do, Dora. Ill go off to Mdme. 
Garniture,” cried Madge, “and ask her to give you some work to do 
at home. Why did I never think of this before? I suppose because 
I fancied you were too ill to do anything. But I will go this moment. 
And when my darling feels her fingers busy, she may become more 
reconciled to her fate.” 








A. Striking Contrast. ' 283 


Dora’s face grew bright. A sweet smile played about the corners 
of her mouth as she nestled up to Madge, and laid her head upon her 
shoulder. 

é Dear little sister,” she whispered, “if only I had work to do, you 
should never hear me grumble. Your idea is a good one. And oh, I 
hope, I pray, that Mdme. Garniture may grant your request. I think 
she will. She was always very kind.” 

“Yes. I think she will, And now I must be off. I have no time 
to spare.” 

Then kissing Dora tenderly, Madge sprang to her feet, and putting 
on her hat and jacket, turned to leave the room. 

“ Madge,” called Dora softly, “it is rather windy and cold, but if 
you wouldn’t mind you might go round by Belgrave Street. It is just 
possible that Lady Ashfield may have returned. We have neither of 
us been there for many months.” 

“Very well, dearest. I shall certainly go round that way. I 
don't mind the wind in the least.” And lowering her veil Madge 
went quickly downstairs. 

As the door closed behind her sister, Dora flung herself back upon 
the little hard sofa, on which she now spent much of her time. Her 
cheeks were flushed. She was nervous and excited. 

‘‘ Something tells me they will soon return,” she murmured, “and 
then—and then how happy I shall be. Iam sure to get nice, fresh, 
dainty work from Lady Ashfield and some of her friends. A visit 
now and again from her. Music lessons for Madge. Well-paid 
lessons, perhaps, three or four a week. The ladies at Penelope 
Lodge must not refuse her time in which to give them, of course not. 
And that will mean much more money. My work and Madge’s 
lessons. Oh, we shall grow quite rich. And my darling shall have 
some new dresses—some silk ones, too—a pretty brown silk with 
coffee lace, and some jewels—bright gold earrings, and a brooch at her 
collar. Ah! how nice she will look, my bonnie Madge. And I—well 
it doesn’t much matter about me. But I think a blue cashmere might 
suit my complexion.” Dora laughed softly. ‘‘ What castles im the 
air! Very much in the air, I’m afraid. I’m like the child in the 
song :— 

“The wee bonnie bairn 
Sits pokin’ in the ase, 
Glowerin’ at the fire 
With his well-round face. 
Laughin’ at the puffin’ lowe. 
What sees he there ? 
Ah the bonnie bairn 
Is biggin’ castles in the air.”' 








284 The Irish Monthly. 


Dora’s voice was not powerful. But it was sweet, round and full. 
She sang with much expression, and there was something very 
touching and sympathetic in her manner of singing. This was one of 
her greatest pleasures. And many a weary hour it had helped her to 
while away as she lay alone in the poor little lodging, longing to 
work, and yet not able to go out to do so. 

As the last words of her song died away the door was rudely 
opened, and a small, grey-headed man entered the room. He hada 
sharp, thin face, a hooked nose, and a pair of fierce, cruel eyes. He 
walked up close to the sofa on which the girl lay and glared at her 
angrily. 

‘¢ A fine young lady, to be sure,” he hissed from between his teeth. 
“ Lying all day upon my couch, instead of working hard to pay me 
my rent.” | 

Dora started up in alarm. 

“ Oh, please, Mr. Brimage. Please do not be angry. I—I cannot 
work. I am so weak and ”—— 

“ But you can sing. I heard you just now. Go out and sing 
round the squares. You'll get money fast enough there, I'll bet.” 

“ Oh, I could not do that,” cried Dora in horror. ‘Indeed, I 
could not.” 

“Bosh!” he answered contemptuously. ‘‘ Beggars can’t be 
choosers. Girls like you have no business to be proud. Better to sing 
than to starve.” 

‘Yes. But, pray have a little patience, Mr. Brimage,” she said 
imploringly. ‘Madge has gone to look for work for me and ”—— 

“Work for you? A fine lot of work you'll do. Now, I tell you 
what it is, my girl, if you and that sister of yours cannot pay me by 
to-morrow, out you go.” 

Dora burst into tears, and sinking back upon the sofa, covered her 
face with her hands. 

é“ To-morrow! It is impossible,” she sobbed. “We have no 
money. We”—— 

“Go out and get it then. Bend your proud spirit, or take the 
consequences. I have had a good offer for these apartments, and if 
you do not pay, why, you must go. (Good evening.” 

And he went away, shutting the door with a bang that shook the 
house. 

Dora raised her head and stared blankly round her. Her eyes 
rested on the dingy carpet, on which it was no longer possible to trace 
any pattern; on the faded curtains, the rickety chairs and table, the 
shabby cloth. 

“ It is poor, more than poor,” she murmured. “: But it is a home. 
And if we are turned out, where shall we go?” 





A Striking Contrast. 28 5 


She wrung her hands in despair and groaned aloud. 

“ Oh, Madge, Madge, how can I tell you such a thing? My poor 
darling, ’tis I who have brought you to this. Oh, why was I not 
drowned the night of the wreck? Why did I liveto be a burden? 
But no, it shall not be.” She jumped up. ‘‘That man suggested 
a way. I will sing in the streets. Oh, mother,” and taking out the ' 
miniature that she always wore, she gazed lovingly at the sweet face, 
‘* to think that your child should come to this! But it must be done. 
I’d die for Madge. And now, if I have only strength to do it, I'll 
sing for her.” 

Dora put on her hat, buttoned her jacket up tight to her throat, 
and put on a thick veil. 

‘‘Few know mein London. So after all,” she thought, “what 
does it matter? IfIcan manage it, it will be a good thing.. But,” 
she clung to the table, “how strange I feel.” 

And growing suddenly faint and giddy, she sank upon a chair. 

é“ My God, help us, two lonely, unhappy girls.” 

The.door opened again, and Mr. Brimage stood smiling upon the 
threshold. 

Dora shivered and turned away. 

“ Come, now, don’t look so vexed to see me. I’m worth bein’ 
friendly to, I can tell you. I bring you good news.” 

‘Good news?’ gasped Dora. 

"Yes. The best you could hear to-day, Pm thinkin’. Your rent’s 
been paid.” 

The girl grew white to the lips, and trembled in every limb. 

“ Do not torture me so,” she cried. ‘It may amuse you, but it is 
a matter of life and death to me. I am going to sing in the streets, 
and if I get any money you shall have it to-morrow. But leave me 
now. I must rest before I go out.” — 

‘‘ Hear the girl. Can’t you understand? I have been paid, more 
than paid, for I have received a whole quarter in advance.” 

Dora stared at him wildly, 

‘““Paid? Our rent paid? Am I dreaming? or, are you really 
Mr. Brimage?” 

‘“‘IT am really Mr. Brimage, without a doubt, my dear,” he 
answered laughing. ‘‘And I am here to tell you that a friend has 
turned up to help you in your distress.” 

“ A friend?” 

“Yes. An’ one you'd be glad to see. For he’s a fine young 
follow with the air of a prince. A man any girl might be proud to 
meet.” 

“Then it was not Mdme. Garniture, or Mrs. Prim from Penelope 
Lodge ?” 


286 The Irish Monthly. 


Mr. Brimage laughed loudly. 

“TI should think not. Those good ladies are not so generous. 
But he told me not to mention his name.” 

‘¢ He—we know no one. That is, at least””—— 

Dora flushed hotly, and her heart began to beat fast, her lips to 
tremble. 

‘Well, I think you'll hear from him soon. He seemed greatly 
pleased to learn where you lived. He an’ his mother had been 
wantin’ to know fora long time. But I fancy, for all you make such 
a fuss, you know very well who he is.”’ 

é Yes,” said Dora simply, “I know now. It was Lord Ashfield.” 

é“ That was the very man. But, mind you, I did not tell you his 
name. Good night.” 

And Mr. Brimage made a low bow and left the room. 


CHAPTER XII. 
PUT TO THE TEST. 


As Madge went thoughtfully through the streets, her heart sad, 
her mind filled with the all-absorbing problem of Dora and her future, 
she suddenly found herself face to face with Madame Garniture. 

‘‘Ah, Miss Neil, there you are,” cried the dressmaker. ‘I’ve 
been wondering greatly about your little sister. What has become of 
her of late?” 

‘She has been ill and weak, Mdme. Garniture. Quite unable to 
go to work.” 

‘Poor child. Iam sorry. She was the best and most punctual 
of my workers. But she'll soon be well enough to come back to us, I 
hope.” 

“I fear not. The hot room is too much for her. But I was just 
going to you to ask you a favour. Could you give her some 
work to do at home? She is well enough for that, and I am sure you 
could trust her.” 

é“ Oí course. She makes button-holes beautifully. I'll send her 
some bodies to finish to-morrow.” 

é“ Thank you, thank you. She is so anxious to earn money. This 
will give her fresh life. God bless you, Mdme. Garniture.”’ 

And Madge’s eyes were full of tears as she shook the good 
woman’s hand. 

“ Well, now, Iam sorry you did not come to me before, dear. I 





A. Striking Contrast. 287 


often thought of little Dora, for the child pleased me greatly. But I 
am so busy. I never could find time to go and see her.” 

é No, of course not. No one could expect you to pay visits.” 

‘‘Perhaps not. But still I should have sent. However, I'll look 
after her now. And I tell you what, I’m going to dress a beautiful 
young lady for the Drawingroom on Thursday. Her maid is young 
and inexperienced, so I must arrange her train. Ask your sister if 
she'll come with me. I may want her to hold pins and things for me 
and it will amuse her.”’ 

“Yes. Iam sure it would. Thank you so much.” 

é Very well, then, I'll call for her in a cab about eleven o'clock. 
Meanwhile, as this is only Tuesday, 111 send her some work.” 

é“ You are very good and kind. I don’t know how to thank you.” 

‘‘ Nonsense, dear. I don’t: want any thanks. Good-bye. I’m in 
an awful hurry. Glad I met you. Ta, ta.” 

And with a smile and a wave of the hand, the kind-hearted dress- 
maker turned a corner and disappeared. 

“ What good news for my darling,” thought Madge joyfully. “I 
could hug you, Mdme. Garniture, for your kindness. And now, 
before going home, I must take a peep at Belgrave Street, just to 
satisfy my pet that Lady Ashfield has not yet returned.” 

But when Madge stood opposite the house and looked up at the 
windows, she uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight. 

“ At last! Yes, surely, Lady Ashfield must be at home. This 
change must mean that she has returned.” 

The once dingy exterior had been freshly painted. Daffodils and 
daisies filled the window-boxes, and the whole house was brilliantly 
lighted. The blinds in the dining-room had not been pulled down, 
and the table, beautifully decorated with choice flowers and rich silver, 
was plainly visible from the street. 

“How delightful to sit at such a table,” sighed Madge. ‘‘ Heigho! 
the wealthy have many things to make life pleasant. How happy 
we should be now, if only my sweet Dora had not been robbed. 
But there, a truce to such dreams. I must try if I cannot see Lady 
Ashfield to-night. And then who knows what may happen?” — 

And full of hope Madge rang the bell. In an instant the hall 
door flew open, and two men in powdered hair stood silently waiting 
for her to speak. 

“Can I see Lady Ashfield ?” she asked nervously. ‘I think she 
would see me if you told her my name. Miss Neil.” 

“Yes,” answered one of the men promptly. ‘‘ Her ladyship will 
see you, I know. Will you kindly walk this way?” 

Madge did as desired, and having followed the man across a 


288 The Irish Monthly. 


richly-carpeted hall and down a long corridor, was ushered into a 
small but exquisitely furnished room. There was no one there; and 
placing a chair near the fire and inviting her to be seated, the footman 
murmured that he would tell her ladyship, and withdrew. 

Left alone, Madge stood still gazing round her in delight. Never 
before had she seen such a room. The colours were soft and har- 
monious. The furniture, which was of richly-carved ebony, toned 
admirably with the gorgeous embroideries that were thrown about 
over chairs and sofas. The cabinets were full of rare china; the walls 
covered with Japanese curios and pieces of old tapestry. The whole 
air of the place was restful. It was a room to dream, read, think in, 
and Madge fell into a kind of trance as she drank in the many 
beauties of her surroundings. 

But her dream was of short duration. For presently the rustling 
of silken garments was heard, and Lady Ashfield swept into the room. 
She was dressed in a rich dinner dress of a deep dark red, with flash- 
ing diamonds in her hair and round her neck. She was tall and 
dignified looking, and as she came forward to greet her visitor, her 
face was lighted up with a gracious smile of welcome. 

é“ My dear Miss Neil, I am so glad to see you at last. My son and 
I had almost despaired of ever finding you out.” 

“You have been away for so long, Lady Ashfield.” 

“True. But why did you not come and see the housekeeper ? 
She had the names of several friends of mine who would have taken 
music lessons from you. They promised me they would.” 

‘‘T am so sorry. But when we called nearly two years ago, we 
could get but little information. The old woman at the door knew 
nothing of your movements.” 

“Tt was unfortunate, altogether,” said Lady Ashfield kindly. 
‘‘ For my son and I were determined to help you and watch over you. 
But my father’s long illness and death put everything else out of my 
head. And now tell me how is our friend, sweet little Dora?” 

‘Alas! She is far from well, Lady Ashfield,’’ replied Madge 
sadly. ‘‘She has suffered much during the last two years, and her 
health is not good even now. She rarely leaves the house.” 

‘Poor child. I am extremely grieved to hear such a bad account 
of her. I will go to see her soon. And how have you been doing, 
Miss Neil? Are you getting on well?” 

“Not well. I work in a school all day. But the salary is small. 
It is not nearly sufficient for the support of two people, and lately 
Dora has earned nothing, poor darling.”’ 

‘Would you have time to give lessons if I could get some for 
you?” 





A Striking Contrast. 289 


**T think so. Mrs. Prim promised to give me two hours a week, if 
I succeeded in getting other employment.” 

“Then I shall ask my friends and let you know at once. I have 
not been long in town, and do not know where everybody is.” 

“Thank you, Lady Ashfield, you are very good.” 

“Not at all. I wish I could have helped you long ago. But is 
there anything else I can do for you? Would you like a little 
immediate assistance? My purse is at your disposal.” 

Madge flushed hotly. 

é“ Thank you. But I would rather not take money. L”—— 

é“ Do not be proud, dear. Remember, little Dora is to be my 
special care. That child, by her energy and presence of mind, saved 
not only my life, but the life of my only son; therefore you must let 
me help her, save her from further trouble and privation.”’ 

é“ You shall do so, if necessary, Lady Ashfield. And believe me, 
I am truly grateful for the offer. But pray let your kindness take 
the form of getting us work.’’ 

‘‘Certainly. But Dora cannot work.” 

“Yes. She is clever with her needle.” 

“AA poor way to make a living,” said Lady Ashfield, shrugging 
her shoulders. ‘‘ However, I will see what can be done. And now 
is that all you will allow me to do for you?” 

“No. There is something else. I want you to do me a great 
favour. Will you?” . 

‘© My dear, of course. You have only to ask, and, if possible, I 
shall grant your request. What is it?” 

Madge drew a long breath and clasped her hands tightly togethor. 

‘You know the Atherstones, Lady Ashfield?” she asked in a 
voice full of emotion. ‘‘And see them frequently?” 

Lady Ashfield looked at her in surprise. 

‘Certainly. I know them intimately. Sir Eustace dines with me 
to-night.” 

“ And Sylvia Atherstone. You know her?” 

‘Yes. Ever since she was a tiny child. She is the most beautiful 
girl and the richest heiress in London, She will make quite a sensa- 
tion when she is presented next Thursday.” 

“ And you know Anne Dane?” pursued Madge, her eyes fixed 
earnestly on the lady’s face.” 

Lady Ashfield laughed and rose to poke the fire. 

é“ Yes. I know Anne Dane also. She is a valuable old servant, 
who having rendered a great service to the family years ago, is 
allowed to do exactly what she pleases, which means tormenting them 
all, and keeping the other domestics in a state of indignation and 
jealousy. Oh, yes, I know Anne Dane.” 


Ld 





290 . The Irish Monthly. 


““ Anne Dane,”’ said Madge in a clear, firm voice, “is a swindler 
and a cheat.” 

Lady Ashfield started. 

é“ My dear Miss Neil, that is strong—I may say violent language.” 

“ Not half strong or violent enough,” cried Madge, springing to 
her feet, her cheeks crimson with excitement. ‘For she has deceived 
her generous master, Sir Eustace Atherstone, and done a cruel, cruel 
wrong to an innocent child.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“ This, Lady Ashfield, On the night of the wreck of the Cimbria 
Anne Dane was put into a boat with a child in her arms. From 
thence she was rescued, I don’t know how, and went to London, not 
with Sylvia Atherstone, but with my sister, Dora Neil.” 

Lady Ashfield stared at the girl in astonishment. 

“Then you mean to say ”— 

é That this beautiful girl, this so-called Sylvia, is a usurper; that 
she has no right to her name, wealth, or position, and that the real 
Sylvia is the sweet, delicate child who saved you and your son.” 

“ You are—you must be either dreaming or mad.” 

“Tam neither. What I tell you is true, absolutely true. The 
fair, gentle girl you know as Dora Neil is really Sylvia Atherstone.” 

“ What proof,” asked Lady Ashfield coldly, “have you of this?” 

Madge cast down her eyes, her colour went and came. 

é“ Alas! none.” 

Lady Ashfield gave a sigh of relief. 

é“ I thought so.” 

é“ But, if I could see Anne Dane for a moment,” cried the girl 
vehemently. ‘If I could bring her face to face ''—— 

“ My dear young lady, you talk nonsense. Without proof, and 
strong proof, no one would ever believe such a story. Take my 
advice, and put this silly fancy out of your head. It can only do harm 
to you, Dora, and even, perhaps, in a small way to Miss Atherstone.” 

“ Silly fancy,” gasped Madge, clasping her hands and raising her 
eyes appealingly to Lady Ashfield’s face. ‘‘Oh, itis no fancy. Itis 
truth, pure, simple truth.” 

“ But, even supposing it were true,” replied Lady Ashfield, 
wondering at the girl’s apparent honesty and extreme earnestness, 
‘‘ you say you have no proof, and”? ———~ 
“We have the portrait of Sylvia’s mother, a miniature hung round 
her neck by her father as he bade her good-bye on board that ill- 
fated vessel, the Cimbria. She's so like that.” | 

“ But no one here ever saw Mrs. Atherstone. She was an 
Australian. He married her out there, and’’—— 

“ But Mr. Atherstone himself, he would know.” 





A Striking Contrast. *  ' 291 


“ Mr. Atherstone is still in Australia. Your miniature could not 
prove anything.” 

“Then, I must see Anne Dane. Let me come upon her un- 
expectedly, and in the presence of witnesses, produce Dora and the 
miniature, and she will be surprised, terrified, and will surely 
acknowledge the wicked fraud she has been carrying on for so many 
years.” . 

“ My dear Miss Neil, pray calm yourself. I do not—I cannot 
believe your story. You are labouring under some strange, some 
wild delusion.” 

Madge bent her head upon her hands and uttered a deep groan. 

“Oh God,” she murmured, ‘‘help me to reveal the truth, to 
restore this poor child to her home and friends.” Then looking up 
imploringly, her eyes full of tears. ‘‘Lady Ashfield, pray, pray help 
me. You can, you”—— 

“Tam quite willing to help you.” 

Madge sprang forward with a cry of joy. 

Lady Ashfield held up her hand. 

“Do not misunderstand me, please, Miss Neil. I am ready and 
willing to do what I can to help you to earn money, and support 
yourself and your sister. But I do not, I tell you honestly, believe 
your story. And if I did, nothing would ever induce me to help you 
in any way to accomplish the end you have in view. Not for the 
world would I be the means of plunging my dear old friend, Sir 
Eustace, into such a sea of trouble as the very suggestion of such a 
thing would bring upon him.” 

é“ Will you give me Anne Dane’s address ? ”” 

“Certainly not. That would surely assist you and cause much 
misery. No, no, Miss Neil, leave Anne Dane in peace, and forget 
this foolish notion. You have an honest face, and seem much in 
earnest. So I cannot believe you have willingly invented this story of 
the wreck. But I‘feel sure that you are suffering from a delusion, 
an hallucination, which has probably grown stronger as the years 
have gone on. But”—— ) 

Madge choked back her tears, and drawing her slight figure up to 
its fullest height, said coldly: 

“TI am sorry to interrupt you, Lady Ashfield. But I must ask 
you to say no more. You do not believe my story. You treat me as 
a mad woman, and, therefore, I beg that you will not take any 
further trouble for me. You cannot, it would be impossible for you 
to recommend a liar or a lunatic to your friends. So pray forget that 
I exist. I regret that I should have taken up so much of your 
valuable time. And I will now wish you good evening.” 


292 The Irish Monthly. 


And with burning cheeks, her head held proudly erect, Madge 
walked quickly from the room. ' 

“What strange infatuation!” cried Lady Ashfield, as the door 
closed upon her visitor. ‘‘The girl’s mind must have suffered 
severely from the shock of the wreck. But I trust that this silly 
nonsense may never reach Sylvia’s ears, nor Sir Eustace’s. What 
pain, what trouble it would cause, false though it be. Intense misery, 
I am sure. But, dear me, how late it is! And I have not quite 
finished my dressing. I really feel much upset by this strange scene. 
I must try and compose myself before my guests arrive.” 

And sighing heavily, Lady Ashfield left her boudoir and hurried 
upstairs to complete her toilet. 


(Zo be contenued). 


A LIFE’S STRENGTH. : 


bear and faith and patience ! Keynotes these 
To the full music of a perfect life: 
Courage to bear and brave the wasting strife 
Of our fleet years, nor crave inglorious ease 
In a hard world of toil by lands and seas; 
Faith in ourselves to win the wars we wage 
’Gainst self and sin, knowing no mind can gauge 
The final peace that crowns earth’s victories. 


And best of these is patience, shining bright 
On the high roll of virtues. God hath graven 
This o’er the winding stair that leads to Heaven, 
To guide us upward to the Hills of Light. 
Would we be strong to win success at length, 
In courage, faith, and patience there is strength. 


Teresa C. Boyan. 





The Two Civtlisations. 293 


THE TWO CIVILISATIONS. 
PART I. 


re is a poet in America named Walt Whitman, considered 

inspired by his friends, half insane by his enemies, and he 
has written a certain chaunt, called “Salut au monde,” in which 
he takes a most comprehensive, and at the same time, minute view 
of the world, and all its wonders of men, and salutes all at the 
same time as his brothers. I often wonder what he would feel, 
could he stand on the quays of Queenstown and see the floating 
cities that glide day after day into our port, and as silently depart, 
each with its freight of humanity gathered from every part of.tha 
civilised and even uncivilised world. To any reflective mind it is 
a strange and suggestive sight. What the mind of the poet 
conceived is brought directly under our eyes. Men of all nations 
under heaven are gathered together in those huge black vessels 
that steal into our harbours every morning, and as silently steal 
away at mid-day, or in the evening ; and many of those visitors of 
ours represent not only their own individuality, but are the origin- 
ators of ideas which are revolutionising the world—the high 
priests of new philosophical systems—the centres towards which 
thousands, ay, even millions, are looking, very often in vain, for 
inspiration and light. In fact, if we had time or taste for these 
things, cur transatlantic steamers would give us a perfect panorama 
of all the leaders of thought in every department of science, art, 
philosophy, and even religion. 

I will, therefore, take you, dear reader, in imagination on the 
deck of one of these ocean steamers; and on a little group of men 
we will make a brief meditation. 

We move up in the tender and attach ourselves to the mighty 
ship which rises dark and gloomy from the waters, its black mass 
only broken by the small circular lights that speak suggestively of 
the terrible buffeting and drenching the good ship will have to 
bear before she anchors at her destination. And suddenly a sight 
breaks upon us which we cannot soon forget. For, as we touch the 
vessel, its dark profile is broken by the light of a thousand human 
faces, on each of which is written that strange, anxious look which 
you notice in persons who are leaving accustomed modes of life, 


294 The Irish Mohthly. 


and embarking on new, and perhaps perilous enterprises. And 
what a medley! What strange pranks Mother Nature plays with 
“the human face divine!” What mighty ingenuity she shows in 
moulding and casting the countenances of men, so that there is no 
mistaking one individual for another! ‘Lean and hungry Italian 
faces, from which centuries of poverty have beaten out the grand 
old Roman type of feature; calm and heavy Teutonic faces that 
speak of easy lives and plenty of lager beer; the high and angular 
Norwegian face that has been buffetted and withered by the 
storms which sweep up the fiords and gulfs of their rugged coasts ; 
here the face of an Armenian, who stood a month ago on the most 
sacred soil that feet ever pressed; and here the olive features and 
white burnous of the Arab, who was baked a few weeks ago under 
the pyramids, and is now shivering in the cold east wind that is 
churning the waters into yellow foam. And here side by side are 
the two races, whom a strange destiny has linked together but 
whom Fate has kept sundered apart as widely as pole from pole— 
the tall and muscular Saxon, and the little, active, nervous form of 
the black-eyed and black-haired Celt. And here, too, are their 
descendants—the mixed race of Americans, who have inherited all 
the thoughtfulness of the Saxon and all the brightness of the Celt, 
and whose pale features and eager eyes speak tho national 
character—bright, alert, and speculative. 

But we are moving. You can see the ridges fall away in white 
foam from the keen prow of the ship, as the screw churns and 
tosses the waters on the stern. “Cast off” comes from the bridge 
high over our heads; and whilst the noble vessel moves forward in 
silent dignity on her course, the little tender sheers off at an angle 
to make the circuit homewards. And now I become suddenly 
aware that whilst [ am soliloquizing, I am in the midst of many 
tragedies, and probably, excepting the captain and the crew, the most 
unconcerned spectator on board. All around are very sad faces, 
filled with a yearning look towards the land they are leaving. 
Even the blue-black eyes of the merry Celt are filmed and clouded 
as they look for the last time, perhaps, on the green hills and 
purple mountains of Inisfail. Here is a lady whose society train- 
ing in the most rigid conventionalism cannot withal prevent her 
hands from trembling, and her eyes from growing red with 
weeping. And here is a stalwart athlete trying to look supremely 
indifferent, but I notice some strange moisture gathering under his 











The Iwo Civilisations. | 295 


eyelids; and I know, if I spoke to him, his voice would quiver and 
break in his effort to reply. But it is no time now for useless 
regrets. The vessel of their fortunes and hopes is already far upon 
the waters. The grim shadows of Carlisle fort frown upon her ; 
and now she glides before the sunny walls of the lighthouse, and 
now she turns her broadside to the bay. She is looking straight 
to the west, walking the waters towards the Empire Republic, the 
mother of many nations. A thousand hearts are pulsing beneath 
her flag—each with its marvellous history of the past, its rich, 


‘beautiful dreams of the future. The stars are not more lonely in 


their orbits than these human hearts—each with its secrets sealed 
to all eyes but God’s. The great wings of mighty storms are 
winnowing and sweeping the Atlantic before them. Billows are 
rolling towards them from far latitudes. Yet not a single soul 


has a fear of reaching the promised land in safety. This little 


world—this microcosm on the waters—what is it but a type of 
humanity and the world? Or what is the world and humanity but 
a ship in the ocean of space P 

However, it is not multitudes but individuals we have come to 
see—not races, but marked types and representatives of races—not 
the hoi pollot who fret their little hour upon the stage and sink 
into obscure graves, but the anakes andron—the kings of men, they 
who are stirring the great heart of the world with impulses that 
issue in healthy reform or unhealthy revolution. And fortunately 
there are a few of these chosen minds here amongst our passengers. 
Men who, from the dark recesses of laboratories and museums have 
strengthened a hundredfold the hands of their fellow-men, have 
annihilated distance on the globe, and tamed the terrible agents 
that stand at the back of untamed Nature. Men, who from plat- 
forms, have thundered forth the ancient, but ever new, principle of 


. a common humanity, and the right of every child of Adam to a 


place on this planet, with air enough to breathe, and room enough 
to swing his arms in—men who, by their words, have touched the 
great heart of the world, and made hoarse voices cheer, and brawny 
hands to strike approval, and tough hearts to vibrate with new 
emotions of revealed strength and power, and a possible happiness 
that may be far off and yet shall be reached—poets and sages, 
patriots and dilettanti, political, scientific, and social revolutionists 
are here—and we shall just look at them, and then let them speak 
for themselves. 





296 The Irish Monthly. 


This age of ours is an age of revolutions. There is not a single 
branch, even of a single science, that has not been studied and 
investigated, with the result that our most carefully-formed ideas 
even on scientific subjects have been obliged to undergo a com- 
plete transformation. Another peculiarity is that there are 
specialists in every branch of science, art, and literature; and that 
certain branches of science and art become the fashion at certain 
periods, and exclude all others in the public mind as effectually as 
a new fashion in dress excludes those that are considered anti- 
quated. And, again, as Solomon said, “there is nothing new 
under the sun,” so there is scarcely a fashion in art or a discovery 
in science that was not quite familiar to the ancient Hellenists, 
who, under the warm sky of Greece and by the pleasant waters of 
the Mediterranean, were making daily pleasure of things which in 
our days are the exclusive property of the highest circles of wealth 
and intelligence—for example, if there were one thing the ancient 
Greeks worshipped more than another, it was the Beautiful. What 
they called the to Kalon was the Divinity, whom they worshipped 
with all the passionate adoration of natures into which the Sun 
God had stricken his fire. The Beautiful in Nature—the Beauti- 
ful in mind and soul—the firmament glittering with stars, the 
meadows glittering with flowers, the wide levels of the sea glitter- 
ing under the sunshafts—the dark eyes of men and women glittering 
under darker eyebrows; all these to these children of Nature were 
feasted on and worshipped as types and symbols of some rarer 
Beauty, unseen but yet to be revealed. These wonderful old 
Greeks have passed away ; but here in the midst of our nineteenth 
century civilisation is an apostle of sestheticism, and ssthetics or 
the science of the Beautiful is once more the fashion of men. You 
see over there leaning against the bulwarks of the vessel is a tall 
and dark young gentleman, with a huge sunflower in his button- 
hole. He is gazing on the setting sun as if this were his last 
evening upon earth, and his eyes are dazzled with the lane of light 
that stretohes to the horizon. He is the son of a Dublin ooulist, 
and of a lady who sang the fiercest and loveliest battle-odes of that 
sad, that glorious period in Irish history which we call 748. He 
is, without doubt, the best ridiculed young man that has come 
before this cynical age. He is now going to be dreadfully disap- 
pointed with the Atlantic, and his mission is to evangelise the 
Americans with two lectures on art that shall be repeated again 








The Two Cuiwilisations. 297 


and again, until the world grows tired even of laughing at him, 
and his adopted country takes him back to her bosom. Yet, 
although his mission shall be a failure, we must not suppose that 
there is not a deep substratum of truth underlying a vast super- 
structure of absurdity ; and by and by you shall hear another who 
has for fifty years preached much the same doctrines with far 
different success, and who, with many eccentricities, has won for 
himself a homage that is rarely given to a living celebrity. 

The next department in the ascending soale is social science ; 
and here, walking armjin arm along the lee side of the ship, are two 
men whose ideas in some things are identical, and on others 
widely different, and who have said many things that have stirred 
many hearts. One is from San Francisco, and he used be called 
a prophet by his admirers: the other is from the County Mayo, 
and during the greater part of his life he has been styled a rebel 
and a felon; in physique they are not unlike. Dark and deter- 
mined men, with deep eyes flashing under bushy eyebrows, but 
the right sleeve of the one hangs tenantless—the arm was left 
some years ago in the steel meshes of an English factory. The 
education of the one was matured under the bright dazzling sun of 
California; the education of the other was finished in a convict’s 
dress out on the bleak wastes of Dartmoor, and in the blinding 
quarries of Portland. He has seen some terrible things, and has 
studied the strange riddle of humanity deep down in awful depths 
of suffering. Of him it might be said what the people of Verona 
used say of Dante: 


é“ Eccovi l’uom ch’é stato all’ Inferno.”’ 


And hence men listen to him as they listen to no other, for they 
know how true is that saying of Goethe’s: 


“Who never ate his bread in sorrow, 
Who never spent the darksome hours 
Weeping and watching for the morrow, 
He knows you not, ye unseen powers.” 


But lest it should be tedious to paint for you portraits of all 
the different representatives of human thought who paced the deck 
this spring afternoon, it will suffice to say that there was scarcely a 
single fantasy of modern thought, sensible or whimsical, reasonable 
or extravagant, that had not a disciple here. Followers of Herbert 


Vou. xv, No. 204. 71 


298 The Irish Monthly. 


Spencer, who has reproduced in our time the ancient Athenian 
worship of the “ unknown God ”—followers of Frederic Harrison, 
who disagrees with Herbert Spencer, and takes great trouble to 
tell the world that Agnosticism is very different thing from 
Positivism—a very considerable number of believers in the 
“evolution theory ” and the Simian origin of, man—a large 
gathering of latter-day infidels who are trying to resuscitate the 
ancient theories of Epicurus and Democritus—a few ladies who 
belong to the new sect of Theosophists, and talk glibly about what 
they call “esoteric Buddhism”—and moving here and there 
young intellectual Americans, fresh from the German universities, 
and holding all European philosophers very cheap compared with 
the humanitarianism and pantheism of their beloved master, Ralph 
Waldo Emerson. And, if you ask me what could have brought 
such representative men together, I will ask you to believe that 
they were en route for Montreal, where the last Session of the 
British Association was held. 

It is growing chill, and we descend to the saloon. Just as we 
enter, a voice, with a foreign accent, exclaims in conclusion of 
some interesting conversation: “ Vorwirts! Vorwarts! This is 
the watchword of our century. Does not your own poet-laureate 
proclaim it to you—even to you, conservative Englishmen, it im- 
movable as the pyramids, insensible as their granite: 


‘ Yet in vain the distance beacons, forward, forward let us range, 

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. 
This, the shadow of the globe, we sweep into the outer day, 

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.’* 


“Yes, said a deep, melodious voice that came floating down along 
the table. “ Yes! forward is the cry—but whither?” 

All looked up in amazement, and saw a venerable man, whose 
high forehead, clad in the honours of seventy summers, betokened 
the very highest powers of thought. There was a hush for a 
moment. Then came a bustling and a shuffling of the feet, and a 
harsh, strident voice, pitched to the highest intonation, spoke. It 
was Mr. Verdun, scientist, Fellow of the Royal Society, London. 

“How can you ask such a question?” he exclaimed. 
“Whither should we go, but where the finger of science is poimt- 
ing? With all the wonders we have shown you, why will you not 


* Locksley Hall. 








The Two Civilisations. , 299 
e 


believe us? We have as yet only touched the fringe of Nature’s 
- garment, and behold what she has revealed to us, what we have 
revealed to you. We have captured the lightnings, and compelled 
them to carry our messages around the earth; we have weighed the 
sun, we have put the ponderous planets in the scales—-we have 
shown you in the meteoric stones the fragments of former satellites _ 
that swung their huge bulk round the earth; we have taken the 
suns of other systems, whose distance is so great that it paralyses 
the imagination, and told you the very materials of which they are 
composed ; we have walked among the nebula of the milky way, 
and put the very rings of Saturn upon our fingers. We have torn 
open the bosom of the earth and shown you in stony manuscripts 
the handwriting of Nature in the days of the mammoth and 
leviathan; and as the service of man is the only service we 
ecknowledge, we have bade the ‘little god of this planet’ to rest 
from labour, for Nature shail be compelled to work for him. For 
him we harness its most dreadful powers, and bid them take him 
from place to place with a speed that outstrips the hurricane; for 
him we have paved a pathway on the mighty waters, and he 
laughs at the waves that thunder harmlessly over his head, and he 
spares his soft fingers in labours that are unworthy of him, and 
hands of iron and teeth of steel rend and tear and weave again 

ents of royal purple and tapestries that might hang before the 
windows of Heaven. And as all things are the same to us, for all 
is but matter in the end, we have divided and subdivided your 
creation until we have reduced it to an atom that can only be seen 
in a microscope, and then we have built up the same creation again 
even to its crowning glory—the mind of man. But you—you to 
whom we have revealed these things—you for whose advantage we 
have toiled and laboured—whose silly minds we have emancipated 
from antiquated superstitions about morality and virtue—you 
whom we have delivered from the debasing pursuits of arts and 
music and poetry ” 

“Stop!” said the old man with a vehemence that startled us 
all, “ stop this blasphemy against things you do not and cannot 
understand. It is true you, men of science, have revealed certain 
secrets of Nature, but how? By laying sacrilegious hands on her 
awful face! “You have cut and delved, and maimed and sacrificed 
Nature and her children, until her beautiful face is scarred and 
blotted by you, and the hideous ugliness has fallen upon the souls 





300 The Irish Monthly. . 


of the children of men. Wordsworth spoke with contempt of old 
of those ‘ who would peep and botanise on their mother’s graves’ ; 
but you, from an advanced platform of scientific iniquity, would 
not only sacrifice to your sinful curiosity the poor beast that licks 
your hand in his agony, but you would even exhume your father’s 
remains for the sake of anexperiment. And after all, what have 
you done? Does the sun give more light or heat to our earth 
since you discovered that-he is a furnace of liquid fire, flinging out 
tongues of flame to every part of the system which he rules? Are 
the planets more brilliant since you discovered that in reality they 
are as dull as the earth itself ? Is mankind better or happier since 
you drove him from the green fields and the blue skies to the 
cloudy and choking city, which by a kind of infernal chemistry 
drags the strength from his limbs, and the blood from his veins P 
Is childhood more pure and joyful since you brought it into your 
factories and bade it stretch forth its soft and tiny hands to grasp 
and control mighty limbs of steel and iron, and chased the roses 
from its cheeks, and the laughter from its lips, and the light from 
its eyes, and the music from its life, and the tender love of God 
from its heart? Yes, you can analyse Nature in your test-tubes, 
you can spy at her in your microscopes, but can you see her with 
your own eyes, or receive her into your hearts? You can tell us 
what she makes her wonders of, and how she makes them, ande 
how long she takes about it. But you cannot tell us what these 
wonders are like when they are made. When God said ‘ Let there 
be light, and there was light, and God saw that it was good,’ was 
he thinking, as he saw thus, of the exact velocity it travelled at, or 
the exact laws it travelled by, which you, wise men, are at infinite 
pains to discover? Or was he thinking of something else, which 
you take no pains to discover at all, of how it clothed the wings of 
the morning with silver, and the features of the evening with gold? 
Is water, think you, a nobler thing to the modern chemist, who 
can tell you exactly what gases it is made of, and nothing more: 
_or to the painter, who could not tell you at all what it is made of, 
but who did know and could tell you what it is made—what it is 
made by the sunshine and the cloud-shadow and the storm-wind— 
who knew how it paused by the stainless mountain troutpool, a 
living crystal over stréams of flickering amber, and how it broke 
itself turbid with its choirs of turbulent thunder when the rocks 
ecard it into foam, and the tempest sifts it into spray? Ah, masters 


The Two Civilisations. 301 


of modern science,” he continued, “ you can tell us what pure 
water is made of, but, thanks to your drains and mills, you cannot 
tell us where to find it. You can, no doubt, explain to us all 
about the sunsets; but the smoke of your towns and factories has 
made it impossible for us to see one.* Here to-day is a beauteous 
landscape, with its luxurious colourings, its broad rich meadows, 
carpeted with wild flowers, its ivies and mosses draping its wells 
and waterfalls, its clusters of violets in the shade. Here in its 
clefts and in its dingles, in blanched heights and woody’ hollows, 
above all by its floretted banks, and the foam-crisped wavelets of 
its streams, the traveller finds his joy and peace. But here comes 
your scientific engineer and an army of navvies, and with a snuff- 
box full of dynamite blows all this loveliness into Erebus and 
diabolio night for ever. And close in their wake, into the very 
heart and depth of all this beauty, and mercilessly bending with 
every bend of it, with noise and shrieking and howling, your rail- 
way drags its close-clinging damnation. The rocks are not big 
enough to be tunnelled—they must be blasted away ; the brook is 
not wide enough to be bridged—it is covered in, and is thencefor- 
ward a drain; and the only scenery left for you in the once 
delicious valley is alternation of embankments of clay with pools 
of slime. All this is bad enough for us; but what is to become of 
eur children?” What favours of high destiny has your civilisation 
to promise her children who have been reared in mephitic fume and 
not in the mountain breeze; who have for playground heaps of 
ashes, instead of banks of flowers; whose Christmas holidays 
brought them no memory, whose Easter sun no hope; and from 
whose existence of the present and the future commerce has filched 
the earth, and science blotted out the sky?” Tt 

A deep silence followed the outburst of indignant eloquence. 
The scientist fidgeted and tossed about in his chair, and somehow 
everyone felt that science was a kind of criminal that, under pre- 
tence of doing a great deal of good, had in reality affected an 
infinity of evil. But the stream of the conversation had tended so 
much towards the lines within which Mr. George is working out 
his theories, that everyone looked to him to say something on the 
important subject they were discussing. 

(To be continued.) 
we The New Republic,” by W. H. Mallock. 
+ Ruskin. 


” 





302 The Irish Monthly. 


“THE CHILDREN’S BALLAD ROSARY, 


, PART 1. 


THE FIVE SORROWFUL MYSTERIES. 
I.—Tue Acony In THE GARDEN. 


Our Saviour dwelt in Nazareth 
Till thirty years had flown ; 

Three years from thence until his death 
He made his mission known. 


With miracles and works of might 
His word on earth he spread, 

To dumb and blind gave speech and sight, 
And raised to life the dead. 


Before he suffered he displayed 
The depth of love divine: 

His flesh and blood our food he made 
In form of bread and wine. 


That last and holiest supper done, 
He rose and bent his way, 

With his apostles, all save one, 
To where the garden lay. 


The three he took within the place 
Were Peter, James, and John, : 
He bade them watch a little space, 

And passed yet farther on. 


But then did fear and heaviness 
His human soul invade; 

In deadly sorrow and distress 
He bent to earth and prayed. 


“ My Father, pass this cup from me, 
Almighty power is thine ; 

My Father, if it may not be, 
Thy will be done, not mine.” 

There fell upon his mortal frame 
An agony profound ; 

His sweat like drops of blood became, 
Fast TITHE to the ground. 





The Children’s Ballad Rosary. . 303 


He thrice to his apostles went 
And found them sleeping there, 
And thrice his steps returning bent, 
And prayed the self same prayer. 


But lo! within the garden pressed 
The traitor and his band; 

‘‘Sleep now,” he said, “and take your rest, 
Behold my hour at hand.” 


By Judas with a kiss betrayed, 
He was a captive led, 

While his disciples, sore dismayed, 
Deserted him and fled. 


Glory to God the Father, 
And his eternal Son, — 
And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 


I 


H.— Tug ScourGInG AT THE PILLAR. 


The Jews’ High Priest was Caiaphas, 
Our Saviour’s deadliest foe ; 
Within his court did Jesus pass 
That night of wondrous woe. 


Reviled and mocked in hate and scorn, 
Condemned to death by all, 

They led him forth at early morn 
To Pontius Pilate’s hall. | 


The priests and scribes accusing stood, 
And all around the cry 

Rose from the Jewish multitude 
That Jesus Christ should die. 


And Pilate knew him innocent, 
But feared his life to save; 

So unto bitter chastisement 
Our spotless Lord he gave. 


The soldiers seized upon him there 

At Pilate’s dread commands, 
' They stripped him of his raiment bare 
And bound his holy hands. 


, 


304 


The Irish Monthly. 


And little need there was to urge 
Their cruelty of mind : 

They raised the awful Roman scourge 
With iron points entwined. 

His hands were to the pillar tied, 
His head bent meekly low; 

And as their ruthless task they plied 
His blood began to flow. 


And how his blood flowed down afresh 
With every stripe that fell 

Upon his pure and tender flesh, 
No tongue of man may tell. 


But yet the gentle Lamb of God 
Nor uttered word nor cry ; 

For us, beneath the torturing rod, 
He suffered silently. 


And when that hour of guilt was o’er, 
And they had worked their will, 

They clothed him in his garb once more 
For torment darker still. 


May we within our hearts enshrine 

. The cause for which he bled : 

For all our sins, for yours and mine, 
The blood of God was shed. 


Glory to God the Father, 
And hts eternal Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 


IT].—Tuxr OCrownine with THORNS. 


The soldiers now devised in scorn 
To gather and entwine 

A crown of sharp and prickly thorn, 
The thorn of Palestine. 


. The crown upon his head was laid, 


And pierced his forehead through, 
Where every point an entrance made 
The blood sprang forth like dew. 





- 





The Children’s Ballad Rosary. 305 


They made his seat a rugged stone, 
The while they pressed it down— 

Such was our Saviour’s royal throne, 
And such his kingly crown. 


A purple robe they round him cast, 
And, in his fettered hand, 

An ignominious reed they placed 
For sceptre of the land. 


In mockery all before him bent 
“ Hail, king of Jews’! they said ; 
From forth his hands the reed they rent 
And smote the thorn-crowned head, 


And spat upon the heavenly face 
Which seraphs yearn to see, 

That all contempt and all disgrace 
His lot on earth might be. 


Once more to Pontius Pilate brought, 
A spectacle of woes, 

Such depth of suffering, Pilate thought, 
Might satisfy his foes. 


The thorny crown, the purple vest, 
The bleeding visage wan, 

Were sights he deemed the stoniest breast 
Might melt to look upon. 


He led him to the palace gate 
And said “ behold the Man!” 

He little knew their flood of hate 
How deep and dark it ran. 


The Jews beheld him bruised and bound, 
And from their lips the cry 

Of ‘crucify him” rose around, 
All echoing “crucify !”’ 


é“ Be witness then that I am free 
From blood unjustly shed ;” 
“ His blood on us,” they answered, ‘‘ be, 
And on our children’s head.” 
Glory to God the Father, 
And his eternal Son, 
And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 


306 


The Irish Monthly. 


IV.—Tue Oarryine or THE Cross. 


Though Pilate well their malice knew, 
Yet he in fear decreed 

That Christ, the holy and the true, 
Upon the cross should bleed. 


They lead him forth from out the throng, 
And on his shoulders lay 

The heavy cross to bear along 
The steep and toilsome way. 


Beneath his burthen meekly bent 
A little space he passed, 

Till, faint and faltering as he went, 
He sank to earth at last. 


The Roman soldiers, looking round 
For one its weight to share, 
Simon the Cyrenean found, 
Who came in pity there. 


Him after Jesus they compelled 
To bear the weary load : 

So was the cross of Ohrist upheld 
Throughout the dolorous road. 


While following on their steps behind 
There came a mingled crowd, 

With women who, in grief of mind, 
Bewailed and wept aloud. 


But Jesus, turning unto them, 
Foretold the days to be: 

‘‘ Weep, daughters of Jerusalem, 
But do not weep for me. 


‘¢ A time will come to weep and mourn, 
When ye shall reckon blest 

The woman who has never borne 
Nor suckled child at breast. 


é ¢'¥e hills and mountains, cover us,’ 
That day shall be the cry, 

For, in the green tree doing thus, 
What shall be in the dry!”’ 








The Children’s Ballad Rosary. 307 


And thence his path of pain he trod 
Until they reached the place, 

The mount of Calvary, where God 
Redeemed the human race. 


The cross upon the earth was laid, 

. And thither Jesus dréw. 

‘‘ Forgive them, Father,” thus he prayed, 
“They know not what they do.” 


Glory to God the Father, 
And his sternal Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 


V.—Tae Crucrrrxion. 


Our Saviour yearned to make complete 
His sacrifice of love, 

‘When through his sacred hands and feet 
The piercing nails they drove. 


The cross of Christ was raised on high, 
While, placed on either side, 

Two malefactors, doomed to die, 
With him were crucified. 


The one who filled a hardened part 
Blasphemed him where he hung ; 

The other spoke with melted heart 
And penitential tongue. 


“ Lord, in thy kingdom of the blest, 
May I remembered be!” 

“ Amen, thy soul this day shall rest 
In Paradise with me.” 


Beside the cross his mother stood 
And looked in anguish on, 

And with her, by the sacred wood, 
His loved disciple, John. 


“ Behold thy son,” said Jesus then 
To Mary standing near, 

And looked on John and spake again, 
“ Behold thy mother here.” 





308 


The Irish Monthiy. 


And John received her as his own, 
And Mary was assigned 

For mother, not to John alone, 
But unto all mankind. 


With awful desolation now 
His human souf was tried ; 

“ Why, O my God, my God, hast thou 
Forsaken me?” he cried. 


Meanwhile on earth no sunlight shone, 
The heavens were overcast, 

And gloom prevailed from noonday on 
Until three hours had past. 


‘“‘T thirst.” As thus he spake once more, 
Amid the dark eclipse, 

A sponge with vinegar they bore 
Unto his dying lips. 


And Jesus, tasting, bent his head 
And willed his earthly end. 

‘‘ Father, into thy hands,” he said, 
“ My spirit I commend.” 


Glory to God the Father, 
And hes eternal Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 














A Glance at the Latter-day Saints. 309 


A GLANCE AT THE LATTER-DAY SAINTS (?)* 
I. 
VER thirty years ago I saw, in Dublin, in an obscure alley 
not very far from Sackville (now O’Connell) street, a queer 
looking edifice on the door of which was painted : CHURCH OF THE 
Latrer-pay Saints. Though entirely ignorant of everything 
concerning these recently sanctified people, it struck me as a great 
piece of boldness that their sect should have “a smoke of its own ” 
in the fair metropolis of my country. I knew there had been no 
Irish heresiarch, and that consequently the “ saints”? must have 
been established and propagated by foreigners. The name was a 
good one. It was cleverly chosen—a taking name, in fact. Per- 
sons shaky in other forms of Protestantism ought to be able to find 
a secure haven among “saints,” a refuge from the unrest and 
instability which periodically crop out in the crews and passergers 
of every barque not moored to the Rock of Peter. And what more 
could seekers after higher things desire than to be admitted among 
the “saints,” former and latter ? 

The period when the sign of a new religion offended my 
Catholic instinct was, though I knew it not, the golden age of the 
latter-day saints. They were scarcely settled in the fastnesses of 
the Rocky Mountains, a thousand miles from civilisation, or, as 
they themselves said, “a thousand miles from everywhere.” 
Their high priest, Brigham Young, “ prophet, seer, and revelator,” 
was governor of the territory of Utah, whose authority, supreme 
and absolute in spiritual and temporal things, it was hardly less 


* The distinguished writer of this paper ought to have put forward more plainly 
the fact that she has been in Utah and has seen what she describes. Some circum- 
stances mentioned in her private letter might have usefully been embodied in the 
article. ‘‘ It seems I am the only Catholic that has ever touched the subject, and 
I am, perhaps, inordinately proud that there are no Irish among these miséradiles. 
These shocking people interest me greatly. Please join me in praying for their 
conversion. The Bishop, Dr. Laurence Scanlan, is a Tipperary man ; the priests, 
nuns, teachers, miners, smelters, etc., are now mostly Irish. Polygamy—if it can 
be proved, which is difficult—is now punished by imprisonment. So, as a friend 
writes to me, ‘the car of progress will now rattle over the rocks of Utah.’’’ 
Another part of this letter speaks of some Mexican converts. ‘ Nearly all are 
Irish, strange to say: for Irish immigration has not turned south as much as we 
would like.” So the Irish Nun has even travelled farther than the Irish Emigrant. 

‘¢ Quae regio in terria nostri non plena laboria? ” 





310 The Lrish Monthly. 


than death to question. No railroads, no telegraph, no soldiers, 
. disturbed the solitude of the holy city. Under the guidance of 
Young, the Mormons were making the desert blossom like the rose. 
They, an insignificant handful of ignorant creatures, were taught 
to regard the United States of America as a poor, mean power, 
which they could whip any day they felt inclined to make the 
exertion. It was their intention utterly to rout that heathen con- 
federation, and they were often told in Sunday harangues that 
the heads of the same would soon be seen begging their bread at 
the gates of Zion, Salt Lake City. 


If. 


Brigham Young, who for thirty years wore the triple crown of 
king, priest, and prophet in the new Zion, the headquarters, the 
Rome of the Mormons, was born in New England in 1801. A 
glazier by trade, he was a Methodist and a Baptist by turns till 
1832, when he embraced Mormonism. His personal magnetism 
and keen practical sense wére of immense use to Joseph Smith, 
founder of Mormonism, who made him one of the newly-organised 
quorum of the Twelve Apostles in 1834. Brigham now began 
“to preach in tongues to the saints,” and though neither saints 
nor sinners understood him, the manner in which he transacted all 
business committed to him proved his superiority, and his promo- 
tion to the higher grades was rapid. In 1840 he preached the 
new gospel in England. He would compass sea and land to make 
a proselyte, and success rewarded his exertions. It is said that he 
often afterwards spoke of the “gullibility” of the English. 
Although not very clear as to what he believed himself, he was 
able to give them satisfying reasons for the faith they understood to 
be in him, and many left all that was dear to them to follow his 
lead in later times. 

Though entirely uneducated—he spent but thirteen days of his 
life in school—intercourse with the world had polished his man- 
ners, which could be very pleasing when he wished. His 
personality was not to be despised. A rather handsome, though 
sinister-looking face, and a tall, commanding figure, attracted his 
audience before he opened his mouth to utter the unknown sounds 
which were understood to be the gift of tongues. When he spoke 
“ American,” his “inspiration” showed to better advantage, and 





A Glance at the Latter-day Sasnts. . 8311 ' 


he seldom failed to “ bring many to the truth,” as he pretended to 
understand it. 

Fraud, dishonesty, and worse crimes distinguished the saints — 
everywhere, and they were driven out of Ohio, Illinois, and 
Missouri, places they had “ opened to the preaching of the gospel.” 
Joseph Smith was shot, and the next in rank, Sidney Rigdon, 
assumed his office. Brigham, however, soon removed Sidney’s 
candlestick, denounced his revelations as from the devil, cut off 
himself and his followers, cursed him, and finally “delivered him 
over to Satan to be buffeted for a thousand years.” Even his 
opponents admired his stern intrepidity. He was elected President 
by an overwhelming majority. The minority he at once cut off, 
root and branch. Everything flourished directed by his strong 
will, and the improving status of the saints soon showed that there 
was an able and firm hand at the helm. 

Brigham now determined to found an empire in the Rocky 
Mountains, then Mexican territory, and though nothing could be 
more difficult than to bring his disciples to this, he accomplished it. 
Many who crossed the Mississippi in the hope of one day ‘“ wor- 
shipping under their own vine and figtree, when none should make 
them afraid,” won only nameless graves in the great American 
desert. But he administered the affairs of the survivors with skill 
and energy, and bent them all to his designs by his dogged perti- 
nacity and resistless influence. He made himself feared, loved and 
venerated by the people whom he cajoled, fed, scolded and praised ; 
but, above all, they learned to dread his iron hand. When the 
crops failed and famine stared them in the face, he told them they 
were cursed for their uufaithfulness ; but he found them food. 

In 1854, when Brigham’s term of office expired, President 
Pierce sent Colonel-Steptoe to relieve him. But Brigham would 
not be relieved. ‘I am and shall be governor of Utah,” said he, 
“and no other man shall replace me till the Almighty says :— 
‘Brigham, you need not be governor any longer.” And de facto 
he was governor as long as he lived, and, in one way or another, 
he broke every power sent out to oppose him. 

Brigham was invariably courteous to strangers, and quite 
willing to gratify the curiosity of which he was the object, so long 
-as it was respectful. When gentlemen of the press visited his city, 
he showered attentions upon them. They were at once taken hold 
of by his sycophants, and shown the bright side of the loathsome 


312 . The Irish Monthly. 


system of which he was the head. Though himself illiterate, he 
showed the highest appreciation of the literary personages who 
visited his capital, and was obsequiously polite to them. Hence 
the glowing accounts that often appeared of a rather insignificant 
region. Writers were surrounded by the Mormon officials and 
never allowed to see for themselves. They “ wrote up ” the holy 
city rather from a Mormon standpoint than from their own 
unbiassed researches. The Mormons were prohibited under the 
gravest penalties from taking the Gentiles into their confidence on 
any subject whatever. 


ITI. 


In the Lion House and the Beehive House, two handsome 
residences connected by a range of business offices, lived and 
worked the redoubtable Governor Young. The former was 
devoted chiefly to his nineteen consorts and their numerous 
children; the latter might be called his official residence. The 
women. derived no social prominence from being the so-called 
wives of the great man. They all dined at his table in the Lion 
House, each mother being surrounded by her own progeny, while 
Brigham and his latest favourite occupied a separate table at the 
head of the diningroom. Neither were they allowed to live in 
idleness; each had her appointed tasks, and all were servants 
without wages. Save one German and one Englishwoman, the 
legal wife and the “plural wives” were all natives of America, 
several of them being of New England. These unfortunate 
women were scarcely ever mentioned in Utah. Their wants were 
supplied with great frugality. Though Brigham soon became one 
of the wealthiest men in the world, having a “ faculty” for turn- 
ing the most unlikely things into gold, he was close-fisted and even 
stingy to the last. There was not a servant on his premises. His 
consorts and daughters did the menial work of his extensive house- 
hold, while his sons-in-law and sons were expected to busy them- 
selves in farming, herding, branding cattle, and mechanical work. 
The versatile “ seer, prophet, and revelator” held the makings of 
his wives’ gowns, and measured them out very sparingly. In early 
days sun-bonnets and cotton dresses were their uniform, and the 
Czar of all the Mormong signalized himself by devising a still 
uglier garb—a high hat with a narrow brim, a shapeless sacque of 
antelope skin, and a short, tight skirt of linsey. This, the famous 





A Glance at the Latter-day Saints. 313 


“‘Deseret Costume,” he made all the women “ saints” wear, but 
even his power was not able to perpetuate so hideous a éoiletie, and 
after a few seasons it gradually dropped out, and only his senior 
spiritual bride, Eliza Snow, who gloried in having been the first 
polygamous wife of Joe Smith, appeared in the Deseret Costume. 

Considering that Brigham was always a de facto king in Salt 
Lake City, and had even been anointed king, it is a little singular 
that his consorts had no social standing, but remained cooks, 
housekeepers, seamstresses to the end, with little variety save 
from the drudgery of the kitchen to that of the laundry. Vice 
spread through all the ramifications of this fanaticism, but the 
worst of its degradations were imposed on women ; to them only a 
bare support was given in lieu of the virtue and liberty they had 
been compelled to barter. It was considered wonderful that the 
royal Brigham took off his hat to some Sisters of Meroy who 
visited his city in 1870 on business of their community. He never 
uncovered his head to the women of the Beehive. Judging by 
Mormon prints and pictures, he even wore his hat at meals, when 
all his consorts and families were present. Indeed, he was 
accustomed to declare that his superior did not exist on earth, and 
therefore there was no one in whose honour he could be expected 
to remove his hat. Sometimes he could not well remove it, for 
during a season in which he was unusually given to vanity, his hair 
of a morning was done up in curling papers and hairpins. The 
lady on whom he had bestowed the latest reversion of his hand 
prepared him to appear before his callers at his daily levée in all 
the bravery of well-oiled ringlets. Towards the close of his life he 
dressed in the latest fashion. 


IV. 


The sons of Brigham Young, like the sons of royalty in general, 
were celebrated for what is vulgarly called rowdyism—whiskey, 
fast horses, furious driving; besides which they were all poly- 
gamists. His daughters, who were said to be the boldest maidens 
in the holy city, were early “married into polygamy,” with his 
fullest approbation. Though his consorts lived in retirement and 
with great economy as to furniture, food, and apparel, his descen- 
danta were accused of taking on airs on account of their blood 
royal. Indeed Brigham was not at all satisfied with the doings of 


Vor. xvi, No. 204. 72 


314 The Irish Monthly. | 


his children, though his family was the best regulated in Utah, “a 
pattern to the saints.” He had a sort of phonetic way of quoting 
Scripture, and would render a well-known text, “according to his 
experience”: “Train up a child, and away they go.” Though he 
was a declared enemy to education, one of his consorts was school- 
mistress to the children of the rest, and as they grew older, he 
gave them other advantages, even sending some of them to college. 

But his liberality in this respect never extended beyond his own 
children. 

The greatest virtue a Mormon can possess is to pay his 
“tithing” promptly. The church was the universal merchant, 
and through “ Zion’s co-operative stores” and their brandy, the 
first Presidency organized all commerce to their own advantage. 
While the heads of the church revelled in luxury, the people had 
but a bare subsistence. Despite Brigham’s perpetual preaching of 
industry, there were some drones in the hive, and not a few were 
supported by their wives. But profits of all kinds fell into his 
hands. One of his wives, so-called, who escaped from him in 
1874, in the legal proceedings she instituted against him, declared 
that he was worth eight million dollars, and had a monthly income 
of forty thousand dollars besides. Events since have proved that 
she correctly estimated his goods and chattels, yet he denied that 
his income exceeded six thousand dollars a month—an immense 
sum at that time in Utah, especially for a man who had no rent 
and little taxes to pay. 

To-day, thanks to Gentile enterprise, the Mormon capital is an 
exceedingly beautiful city, especially when viewed from a distance, 
and in spring and summer. Trees, gardens, cornfields, patches of 
vivid green, starred with golden rod and sunflowers, bright sky, 
sparkling waters, contrast finely with the sombre grey and brown 
of the surrounding mountains. The temple built of white granite 
approaches completion ; it has already cost millions. The Assembly 
House, used in cold weather for Sunday meetings, is a fair, graceful 
building. The tabernacle is grotesquely ugly; even the saints 
themselves -irreverently compare it to a huge gofer or land turtle. 
It seats eight to ten thousand people, and, as the walls are almost 
all doors, it could in case of accident be emptied in three minutes. 
There is no sign of religion init. Its grey walls are bare and un- 
sightly. Lions couchant and a beehive are the only adornments of 
this temple of fanaticism. 





A Glance at the Latter-day Saints. 315 


Mormonism is a materialistic religion: one of the hymns begs 
some not well-defined deity to 


“ Celeatiulize and purify 
This earth for perfect Mormons.”’ 


Their aspirations begin and end in earth. The most desolate 
spot in the whole world is, I think, the Mormon graveyard. No 
sign of faith, hope, or love; no solemn trees, no green turf, no 
soaring cross, no emblematic dove. In family “lots” wives lie at 
the foot of the husband in the order of their decease. The 
mortality in early days was immense, especially among children. 
It was said that the deceased children of Brigham would fill a fair 
sized graveyard. Yet some fifty survived him. 


Vv. 


The finest dwelling house in Utah is the mansion known as the 
Amelia Palace, built by Brigham in his latter years for his 
favourite, Amelia Folsom, a native of Massachusetts. It is 
erected on a beautiful lawn, surrounded by trees and gardens, and 
would be a splendid residence in any city in the world. Here 
Brigham died August 29, 1877, to the grief and wonderment of 
many of his disciples, who thought their prophet would never see 
death. His widows roamed the streets disconsolate, weeping into 
immense towels, and shrieking in every variety of tone: “ The 
Prophet is dead!” Every one of them save the contumacious 
Ann Eliza, who, instigated by some Gentile barbarians, had 
instituted proceedings against him, was a widow “ well left.’ 
-Each had a house and lot. Amelia was and is quite wealthy. 

As to religion, I fear the wretched high priest died as he had 
lived. Yet a descendant of his told a Catholic lady at the time 
that he frequently muttered on the last day of his sinful life: “I 
never had a wife but one, and that was my first.” Hoe had ample 
opportunities of knowing the truth which would have freed him 
from his unruly passions; but avarice and sensuality and ambition 
were strong in his craven soul to the very last, so far as can 
be ascertained. As early as 1866 a priest ventured to reside in the 
holy city—a Father Kelly, sent thither by the Archbishop of San 
Francisco, in whose diocese the new Jerusalem then was. LEvery- 
thing was done to drive him from this difficult mission. The saints 


316 The Irish Monthly. 


whittled about his poor hut day and night.* A coffin was laid at 
his door, and he was told he would soon be put in a state to occupy 
it. Nothing of this kind was ever done but by the instigation of 
the prophet ; if he did not commit many a murder with his own 
hands, it is certain that he inspired, suggested, or even commanded 
many a one. The priest boldly appealed to him for protection. 
He was astonished (!) that any had behaved so inhospitably to the 
interesting stranger, whom he immediately covered with the aegis 
of his protection, and the priest was henceforth unmolested. 
Brigham expressed the greatest friendship for him, asked him 
many questions, professed himself “ almost persuaded” to become 
a Catholic, but virtually concluded every conference in the words 
of another who preferred the honours of this world to the glory 
of the next: “I will hear thee again concerning this matter.’’ 
Brigham expressed a strong desire for Irish disciples. He 
considered the class of Irish likely to be induced to emigrate 
excellent farmers, and was most anxious to have them settle in his 
territory in large numbers. His missionaries were not at all 
successful in the Emerald Isle. Indeed the Irish have always been 
conspicuous among the Mormons only by their absence. Brigham 
told an Irish lady that he always did what he set his heart on, and 
that he would live to see plenty of Irish in Zion. So he did, but 
not in the way he expected. It was not [msh bishops, priests, 
religious, and laity, who were all Catholics, that he courted, but this 
was the only Irish immigration he ever saw. When Father Kelly 
‘sald mass in a hovel in the den of vice that Salt Lake City then 
was, his congregation consisted of a few Irish soldiers from the 
neighbouring camp, and some miners and smelters. Fervently 
they besought the good God, through the intercession of the purest 
of Virgins, the maid without a stain, to plant His holy Church in 
this fair land, and create a chaste generation in this modern 
Gomorrha. Soon after the railroads opened up this unexplored 
region to the Gentiles, and Mormonism, which cannot bear the 


* An obnoxious stranger was frequently ‘‘ whittled out of town.” Mormon men 
and boys would surround his house in perfect silence. Each had a knife and a stick 
of wood. When the unfortunate Gentile appeared, they all began to slice off pieces 
of wood, bringing their knives as near to his face as possible. They followed him 
everywhere, but never actually touched him. To see huge knives flashing con- 
tinually about his head and face was more than the bravest man could stand. Few 
‘could bear it for a day. When these persons left, they were said to have been 
‘‘ whittled out of town.”’ 








A Glance at the Latter-day Saints. — 317 


light of day, was no longer cloistered. The spread of Catholic 
principles more than any other means would cure the loathsome 
ulcer on the breast of a great nation. From the first the Catholic 
Church has been respected by the Mormon, who sees little difference 
between his own “ celestial ordinance” of simultaneous polygamy 
and the progressive polygamy sanctioned wherever divorce holds 
sway. Nor is it easy to persuade him that he has not as much 
right to interpret the bible in favour of his peculiar institution as 
the non-Catholic has to interpret it in favour of monogamy. 

The sagacious Brigham, a man of unusual administrative 
ability and great natural gifts, saw this, and he often seemed on 
the verge of conversion. He admitted that he tried hard and in 
vain to convert the first priest he met in Utah. But he often 
averred that this priest could have converted him had he remained 
long enough and tried hard enough. It is certain that he showed 
more respect to Catholic clergy and religious than to any other 
persons, even royal princes. And when, to the wonder of America, 
Sisters of Mercy settled in Zion, the patriarch declared himself 
their protector, would stop his carriage if he met them in the 
street, and graciously inquire how they were doing. He even 
invited them, should they be in need of spiritual advice or direction, 
to come to him, assuring them they would always find him ready 
and willing to instruct and direct them. 

But, indeed, the astute Brigham had quite enough to do to 
give advice and direction in his own household. Bitter quarrels, 
intense animosity, indescribable scenes of violence, results of a 
vicious system that brought the worst passions to the surface, were 
not unusual in his wide domestic circle. Sometimes he was obliged 
to threaten to drive all his consorts away, and “go to heaven 
alone.” More often he consoled them with empty promises. The 
older ones, known as “mothers in Israel,’ he promised to 
rejuvenate in the resurrection ; with the younger ones he used 
diplomacy, and to all in general he declared that they must bear 
their miseries cheerfully, for “‘he would not have whining women 
about him.” 

Verily, the most wretched women on earth were in this happy 
valley by Jordan’s stream. To see them pour out of the huge, 
ugly tabernacle of a bright Sunday afternoon was to look upon a 
sea of faces from which all love and graciousness seemed banished, 
and on which sin and sorrow and unsanctified suffering had left 





318 The fish Monthly. 


indelible traces. They were of every age and of almost every 
country. It is true that they were to a great extent of the lowest 
and most degraded classes. But there were among them, too, 
women of education and so-called refinement, who had been lured 
into this seething vortex by the deceitful tongues of Mormon 
missionaries. Why did not these leave? Because they could not. 
There was neither ingress nor egress save through the terrible 
Mokanna; if they did leave, they would lose their way of living, 
such as it was; and, worst of all to a woman’s heart, they would 
never again see their unfortunate children. ‘Poor creatures, they ' 
regarded their fate as the inevitable to which they must, per force, 
reconcile themselves. And, in the midst of the tortures of their 
hideous condition, they would say, with a sort of blasphemous 
resignation: We are made to suffer ; we must go on suffering; we 
must bear our awful cross; we must live our religion. God wills 
it. 

Every English-speaking country was represented among the 
Mormons, as I have said, except Ireland. This was a great grief 
to Brigham Young. He was willing to give the Irish “a refuge 
from famine and danger.” He looked for them in Ireland; he 
‘sought them earnestly among the Irish settlers in England, Soot- 
land, Wales, America; he sent his most eloquent apostles into the 
highways and by-ways of the world to compel them, so to say, to 
come to his banquet, but not one of them came. Surely this is a 
grand thing for the island of genuine saints. That they should be 
faithful in their own country, where they are so shielded, is not 
surprising in the light of their past record; but we must thank 
God specially for their fidelity in other lands, where wealth and 
social position, and in several cases intellectual ability, succumbed. 

They are now in Utah in large numbers, and they have oon- 
tributed their share to the victories won over the Mormons within 
the past year by the other settlers—victories which have broken 
the power of the Saints and are the beginning of the end of their 
hideous caricature of a theocracy. May they ever preserve intact 
the faith once delivered to the saints. May they remain in the 
future what they have been in the past, the chaste generation 
whose memory is immortal. Under the protection of the Mother 
of Mercy, may they continue to bring up their children in the fear 
and love of God and the practice of holiness. And, appreciating 
the freedom of which they were of old deprived in their own fair 











Home Sickness. ' 319 


land, may they ever preserve to themselves and to others that 
higher and more blessed freedom wherewith Christ hath made us 


free 
M. A. C. 


HOME SICKNESS. 


CG OMETIMES in the evenings, 
When the mountains are grey, 
I muse on mine own country 
That’s far, far away : 
There are white palaces 
By a jasper sea ; 
And I trow mine own country 
Is the best land for me. 


Green are the fields thereof, 
Spangled with gold; 

Glad goeth many a one 
Stricken of old; 

Old friends and lovers 
Dead long ago, 

Meeting and greeting, 
Whiter than snow. 


Yonder the sky’s yellow, 
And rosy and green, 
With drift of angels’ feathers 
And gold harps between ; 
And I think if I might travel 
Where the gates open wide, 
I should see mine own country 
Lie smiling inside. 


Come ye, all my belovéd, 
Rise up by cock-crow! 

For our own country calls us, 
And we have far to go: 

And were any left in exile 
That bitter pain to dree, 

O, even mine own country 


Would be exile to me! 
KATHARINE TYNAN. 


320 The Irish Monthly. 


DR. BLAKE OF DROMORE, AND FATHER O’N EILL 
OF ROSTREVOR. 


PART II. 


A rgw more words about the holy priest, whose memory we have 
linked with that of his first Bishop; and then we shall bring to 
' some sort of conclusion the biographical sketch, of which this in 
reality is not the second part but the ninth, and which even many 
years ago, in order that another might not do so for us, we our- 
selves compared already to Pope’s “needless Alexandrine, which, 
like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.” 

We had accompanied Father O’Neill to Rome on the second 
of his visits: for he made three pilgrimages to the Eternal City— 
the first stretching over all the years of his student life, the second 
extending through the greater part of a year, and the third con- 
fined to a few weeks when his second bishop, Dr. Leahy, chose 
him as his companion when visiting the Amina Apostolorum. It 
was towards the end of his second visit that he seems to have made 
an earnest attempt at carrying out an idea whivh, no doubt, he had 
cherished years before, and which he certainly still cherished very 
earnestly several years later, as we shall see. This was to do what 
St. Francis Jerome had done, while already doing, like Father 
O’Neill, the work of an eminently holy priest, in what we call 
“ the world ”—to leave his first field of labour and to enter the 
Society of Jesus. He seems to have broached the subject first to 
the Coadjutor Bishop ; perhaps he feared to do so with Dr. Blake 
—and well he might! We venture to give, almost in full, the 
reply of his venerable friend :— 

(My Dun Mz. O’Nertz, Newry, April 7th, 1856. 

“ Your letter dated on Easter Monday has caused me no little anxiety. Placed 
as I am in the midst of difficulties which will be terribly increased should I happen 
to survive Dr. Blake, I always calculated on your advice and assistance to bring 
me through, knowing your sincerity and zeal and experience, and it will be to me 
a bitter disappointment if you now leave me. At the same time, I hope I would 
not be so selfish and cruel as to retain you, if your abandonment of this mission 
were necessary for your salvation. But is it necessary? You are alarmed by the 
dangers which surround a secular priest, and the multiplicity of affairs which tend 


to withdraw his attention from regulating his interior. Now if any one is fit to 
discharge the duties of the minstry, is it not one like you who is alive to the perils 





‘ 


Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. 321 


of the mission, and who feels that the interest of his own soul must not be neglected 
while attending to the welfare of others? If every priest who has such sentiments 
were to retire into the cloister, seeking his own safety in flight from the combat, 
whgt would become of the people? No doubt a religious order is a school of perfection, 
and in the abstract it is better to embrace it than remain in the world, but you 
must admit that there are circumstances which render it a less perfect state for 
many individuals. What might be best in countries like Italy, where there is a 
superabundanoe of clergymen, is in my opinion far from being the most pleasing to 
God in dioceses like this, where the people have not by any means enough of clergy- 
men to attend to their spiritual wants. And let me ask of you, my dear friend, 
what is to prevent you sanctifying yourself while labouring here for the salvation 
of souls? Can you not give in the early part of the day three quarters of an hour 
or a foll hour to meditation? Can you not intermingle aspirations frequently with 
your external duties? Can you not examine carefully your conscience, especially 
on your peculiar tendencies, every day, and begin each morning with renewed 
fervour in the service of God? You celebrate mass daily, you read your office, 
you go frequently to confession : why then should yon think that with all those helps 
you cannot sanctify yourself ? . 

‘* I know your occupations were extremely Jaborious. Indeed I feel that the first 
curate in Newry has far too much work placed upon him. But if I am to survive 
Dr. Blake, one of the very first measures I should adopt would be toexempt the first 
curate from attending sick-calls, and to bring an additional priest into Newry. 
Meanwhile, if you return, I will continue to attend to the confessions of the Nuns, 
and thereby relieve you from what must have ocuupied one of the days in 
the week. 

é If you cannot make up your mind to abandon the idea of joining a religious body, 
at all events defer it fora few years until the Sisters of Mercy have got over their 
difficulties. You know the ways of Dr. Blake, and can manage him far better 
than either I or those poor Sisters can. I have some projects in view which may 
be of the greatest service to this diocese, and in which you may be able to give me 
essential aid, if the time should come for carrying them into execution. 

Sister M. Aqnin Russell made her profession on Wednesday in Easter week. 
The echool-room was fitted up as achapel for the occasion. Dr. Blake presided. 
Dr. Furlong was to have preached, but on the Sunday a letter was received from 
him stating that he was very ill, and that his physician would not allow him to 
undertake the task. I was therefore obliged to supply his place. 


“ T am, my dear Mr. O'Neill, 
_ ‘* Yours very affectionately, 
“é g& J. P. Luany.” 


The “ Dr. Furlong” named in the last paragraph was, I am 
sure, not the Maynooth Professor who about that time became 
Bishop of Ferns—not Dr. Thomas Furlong, but Father Moses 
Furlong, of the Order of Charity, which in this country is best 
known through Father Gentili, who lies in Glasnevin, and through 
Father Lockhart, who still works in London. The reason why this 
irrelevant paragraph has not been suppressed with some others that 
follow it is in order that our Magazine may contain the name of 


_ 322 The Irish Monthly. 


one who has already been alluded to twice at least. The young 
Sister of Mercy whose profession is recorded was afterwards the 
subject of “an Obituary in Mosaic,” which may be found at page 
114 of our fifth volume (1877), and which links with a holy and 
amiable memory sundry passages of prose and verse from more 
than one pen, the daintiest being “ My Saint,” which has since 
reappeared among Miss Mulholland’s Vagrant Verses. 

" Dr. Leahy’s earnest expostulation had at least the effect of 
inducing Father O’Neill to defer the execution of his design, for 
the bishop’s next letter, dated “Newry, May 7th, 1656,” begins 
thus: “ Your last letter afforded me the greatest pleasure, and I 
have every confidence that you will lose nothing before God by 
your consenting to remain at a post where you can contribute in so 
many ways to the furtherance of religion.” He goes on to say 
that, if he should survive Dr. Blake—he has survived him for 
thirty years—“ it will be of essential consequence for me to have 
you near me, as I can without any reserve open my whole mind to 
you, and discuss plans with you before broaching them to others. 
Newry is, of course, the fittest place for you. As to your remain- 
ing in Rome until next spring, I have no objection, provided you 
can arrange it with Dr. Blake. But he seems impatient for your 
return. However, by throwing yourself on his goodnature, he 
may, perhaps, consent.” 

The old bishop’s “ goodnature”’ did not, it would seem, prove 
equal to this strain, for Dr. Leahy in a subsequent letter alludes to 
one in which Dr. Blake had “ invited” the pilgrim to return—the 
verb “invited” being probably a very mild euphemism in this 
context. And so Father O’Neill came back to his old post in 
Newry. He continued, however, to cherish for years the same 
aspirations; and Dr. Leahy, himself a devoted son of St. Dominick, 
might grudge but could not absolutely refuse to St. Ignatius even 
the most valued of his clergy. Father O’Neill preserved carefully 
two brief letters received from Father Joseph Lentaigne, who was 
at the time Provincial of the Irish Jesuits :— 

“ 8t. Francis Xavier's, 
“ Upper Gardiner Street, Dublin, - 
“ April 26, 1868. 
“ My Duar Ma. O’Nzmz, 
“ I have no difficulty in receiving you for this Province (Ireland) except the 
opposition of your Bishop. With his consent I shall be most happy that you should 
at once join us. Try what you can do, so as not to cause displeasure on his Lord- 








Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. 323 


ship’s part. * * * You are aware that a novitiate of two years is required, and 
that whoever joins us must be prepared to apply himself to whatever duties may be 
appointed for him, missionary work or college employment. When you think that 
you can put your pious purpose into execution, I shall be happy to hear from you 
again ; and I remain, in union with your prayers, 
“é: Ever most sincerely yours in Christ, 
“ J, Lewrarens, S.J.” 


One is surprised to note that the following letter is separated 
from the preceding by considerably more than a year :'— 


“ Upper Gardiner Street, Dublin, 
30th September, 1869. 
“ My Dear Ma. O’NeEn1, 

é“ I am very glad that you have obtained Doctor Leahy's consent. I am very 
much against any further delay, as new causes for postponement are sure to arise 
every six months, unless by a decisive act we free ourselves from them altogether. 
I cannot therefore advise a delay beyond 17th December. 

Excuse these hurried lines, as I wish to overtake the post ; and believe me, my 
dear Mr. O'Neill, 

“ Most sincerely yours in Christ, 
. “J, LENTAIGNE, 8.J."’ 


We do not know what finally saved the diocese of Dromore 
from what would certainly have been a grievous misfortune for it, 
however other portions of God’s Church might have profited there- 
by. We are inclined to suspect that the real difficulty may have 
lain in a passage which we have omitted from the first of Father 
Lentaigne’s letters, and which regarded the mother of our good 
priest. The Church, herself a mother, has always carefully 
recognized certain real exigencies of parents as modifying the 
vocations of children. 

The last date that we have reached preceded only by a few 
months the death of the venerable Dr. Blake, who died in April, 
1860. Before returning to our main subject, we may follow to the 
end this other simple story which has come to be told through its 
being associated with the episcopal career of Michael Blake of 
Dromore. 

Father O’Neill did not gain the territorial title we have con- 
ferred upon him in the heading of these pages till November, 1864, 
when he succeeded the Rev. Bernard Mooney as Parish Priest of 
Kilbroney—for such is the ecclesiastical designation of the parish 
which comprises, with Rostrevor and Killowen, several other 
districts leas known than these which have won a place in literature 
from frequent allusions* in the poems of Thomas Caulfield Irwin, 


324 The Irish Monthly. 


' Daniel Crilly, M.P., and others. One of these others, in describing 
“a picnio at Rostrevor,” in verse as homely as the theme, says of 
this beautiful village that— 


It lies ’twixt the sea and the mountain, 
Or rather the bay and the hill, 
Which cool the warm breath of the summer, 
And take from the winter its chill. 
It nestles “mid oak-trees and beeches 
That stretch their green arms o’er the street, 
Whose breadth, to ita length nearly equal, 
Expands where the four roadways meet. 
As you wind by the bay’s breezy margin, 
Rostrevor you mark from afar; 
Betrayed by its‘spire of Our Lady’s, 
And joyful you cry : ‘* Here we are !’’— 
Betrayed by its spire gleaming brightly 
High o’er its embowering trees : 
As the breath of the sea is detected 
In this bracing and life-giving breeze. 
That white granite spire of Our Lady’s 
On the oaks and the beeches looks down, 
And it cries up to heaven for a blessing 
On the simple Arcadian tewn. 
A blessiny in sooth is the convent 
That hides in the shadow serene 
Of that beantiful Church of Our Lady, 
Of Mary our Mother and Queen. 
The convent and church crown the village 
Which clusters in peace at their feet ; 
A stream from the hills saunters past it, 
Reluctant to leave scene so sweet. 


The church and convent here referred to will for many a year 
attest the zeal and piety of Father O’Neill. The church, indeed, 
was the work of his predecessor, good Father Bernard Mooney, its 
dedication sermon being the first occasion on which the people of 
Dromore listened to a voice that they at once learned to love. 
The new Coadjutor had been consecrated by the Primate, Dr. 
Joseph Dixon, on Rosary Sunday, October 1, 1854; and on the 
17th of that month, on the appropriate feast of the Dedication of 
all the Churches of Ireland, the great preacher from the south 
appeared for the first time in a northern pulpit. That was ten 
years before the builder of that beautiful church went to his 
reward, and left God’s temple to be tended with untiring devotion 
by Father O’Neill. That church became a chief part of his 


“Erin: Verses Irish and Catholi®,’’ p. 30. 


i My Dear Farner O’Nenn, 


Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor, 326 


existence during the quarter of a century that followed. To the 
very last, on his walks, he never tired of discovering from all 
impossible points glimpses of the beautiful spire rising up out of 
its bower of trees and standing white-against the wooded mountain 
behind. Every detail of the worthy adornment of that church, 
and everything that regarded the divine service, was attended to 
with loving exactitude. Under the holy shadow of that church of 
Our Lady he built a convent and schools for the Sisters of Mercy 
—a branch of the Newry convent which he had founded. His 
work also was the Church of the Sacred Heart in Killowen,* 
which, as the church merely of a rural district of a parish contain- 
ing already the noble church we have referred to, is, we think, 
unrivalled. His latest work was the erection of an excellent 
school for the boys of Rostrevor on the best possible site—this and 
all the rest paid for to the last farthing by the unwearying exer- 
tions of this good priest, on whom God had bestowed that benedic- 
tion—complevit labor es e7us. 

No wonder that his grateful people seized on the opportunity 
presented by the silver jubilee, not of his priesthood but of his 
pastorate, for letting him see how they felt towards him. This 
domestic festival was celebrated with affectionate enthusiasm at 
the beginning of this year. “Thank God!”—he exclaimed in 


replying to one of the addresses presented—“ thank God, the 


union between priests and people is as strong to-day in old 
Ireland as in the days of persecution, when on the mountain side 
of Sheve Bawn, just in your view, and under the shadow of that 
old stone,t your sainted forefathers assembled to hear Mass.” The 
most touching testimony that the occasion called forth was the 
following letter from his venerated Diocesan :— 


“ Violet Hill, Newry, 
“é Christmas Day, 1889, 


“ Among the many regrets which are the natural portion of a feeble old age like 
mine, there is one specially present to my mind to-day, and that is my inability to 
be with you in Rostrevor, and to share the joy with which your good people, as I 


* This takes the place of the very unarchitectural yet venerable church (still 
left standing as a relic of old times) which was the scene of the Yelverton Marriage 
some thirty years ago. 

t The famous Clough more, which bears the impress of giant fingers, said to be 
those of Finmacool, who hurled it across the bay from Carlingford mountain 
beyond. 


326 ! The Irish Monthly. ‘ 


understand, are preparing to celebrate the silver jubilee of your pastorate amongst 
them, 

& We have known each other for many years—so many, indeed, that my 
thoughts carry me back only with an effort to the first time of our acquaintance. 
Many things that have happened since then have lost their hold upon my failing 
memory; many persons whom I have known are now, to me, mere names ; but not 
so with you, my dear Father O’ Neill, and with all you have been to me. 

“I do not and never can forget what I owe to you through all those years—what 
a source of strength and comfort you were to me when I came a stranger to this 
diocese to take upon me duties altogether new, and responsibilities which I dreaded ; 
_ and what pleasure I have always enjoyed in the mutual regard which has existed 

between us, not merely as bishop and priest, but as friend and friend. 

“ May God bless you ever with His choicest graces, and grant you health and 
length of days to labour in the future, as well as in the past, for the interest of His 


glory. . 
“é Pray for me, as I shall always pray for you. 
“ Ever, my dear Father O'Neill, 
Yours most affectionately in Christ, 
| Joun Prus Leanr. 


“é Length of days to labour in the future!” One of the addresses 
of the school children prayed that his silver might turn to gold, 
that, after another quarter of a century among them, they might 
celebrate his golden jubilee. ‘Twenty five years more—and he had 
only three months! Not without sufficient warning—he needed 
none—God took him to Himself in the manner that he had prayed 
for. “After all, it is no blessing to live too long,” he had said to 
a friend a few weeks before ; and to another he confessed that, if it 
were God’s will, his prayer was not to die of a lingering ailment. 
The angel Death, coming as it did, might have come with a 
suddenness awful and saddening to his friends ; but no, every- 
thing was arranged sweetly and consolingly. With his characteristic 
spirit and courage, though not in his usual health, Father O’Neill 
had insisted on taking his part in the Diocesan synod held in 
Newry on Tuesday, April 15th, 1890. The next morning he arose at 
six o’clock, the hour of rising that he had, through all his priesthood, 
observed with the unswerving regularity which habit had trans- 
formed into a second nature. Though he had made his ordinary 
weekly confession on the previous Sunday, he prepared for the 
celebration of Mass, after his never omitted hour of meditation, 
by again receiving sacramental absolution, and then he stood for 
the last time, not knowing that it was so, before the altar on which 
he had offered up the holy sacrifice some nine thousand times. 
During the forenoon he enrolled in the League of the Cross two or 





Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. 327 


three young men who were leaving for America, giving them 
earnest advice at considerable length. It was remembered the next 
day that he had spent a longer time than usual at his prayers in 
the transept of his beloved church, in the spot where he recited a 
large portion of the Divine office every day about noon—the spot 
beneath which his remains are now reposing, near the confessional 
in which he had administered the Sacrament of God’s mercy 
assiduously and with such firm yet tender zeal. A little later he 
rode out past the old graveyard of Kilbroney ; but he was observed 
returning before many minutes had passed. His death was upon 
him; but happily it did not strike him down on the spot. He 
lingered till near midnight in great pain, which, with his usual 
self-restraint, he would not relieve by a single moan. The 
immediate cause of death was rheumatism reaching at last the 
heart. The dying priest retained his full consciousness and calm- 
ness to the end, encouraging his afflicted friend and coadjutor to 
strengthen him for his journey by the last sacraments of the 
Church. And then in the early morning the sad news went 
round—* Poor Father O’Neill is dead!” On the following 
Saturday, after the beautiful Requiem Office and Mass and last 
funeral rites, the holy remains were laid, as we have already 
mentioned, in the left transept under the very spot where he had 
been noticed praying for a long time on the day of his death. 
The opposite transept is lighted by the fine stained-glass window 
presented by Lord O’Hagan in memory of his mother, who is 
buried in the adjacent graveyard of Kilbroney; and the 
corresponding window over Father O’Neill’s grave may in like 
manner be made a memorial of him. 

Let us give a few of the touching words spoken by the Very 
Rev. J. C. Lyons, O.P., Prior of St. Catherine’s, Newry, at the 
funeral obsequies, at which not only the Dromore priests assisted, 
but Down and Connor, Kildare, Armagh, and Dublin, were also 
represented. 


é“ His life was full of zeal for the glory of his Master. His zeal for the beauty 
of god’s house could not be surpassed. The success of Father O’Neill in his 
laborious life is due, in the first place, to his thorough spirit as a priest. He was 
first and beyond all things a true priest. He realised what it was to be a steward 
and a guardian of his Master, and the all-absorbing devotion of his life was his 
devotion to the sacrament of the altar. He was not only a steward of his Divine 
Master, but also His friend and constant companion. The life of Father O'Neill 
was one of undeviating piety and attention to priestly duties. He led a life of 


328 ‘The Irish Monthly. 


unswerving routine. He was a man truly fullof God. . . . . . The noble, 
open, honest, expression on his countenance, his unobtrusive and quiet manner, 
his kindness, his genial smile—everything combined to make an impression, even 
upon the casual observer, and make him say to himself: ‘ Ah, this is no ordinary 
man.’ Father O'Neill was a typical Irishman. He had an Irishman’s generous 
heart. He was ever truly charitable, and particularly so with his brother priests.’’ 


Elsewhere Father Lyons remarks that, “ as a friend, he was as 
true as steel, and that, although the very soul of hospitality in 
social matters, he in his most unreserved and unguarded moment 
never uttered a word unbecoming a holy priest.” 


Among the beautiful flowers, some costly and some simple, 
that were heaped upon the coffin, many were laid by those who 
were not members of his flock, one wreath (for instance) being a 
token of regret from the Presbyterian minister of the village, who 
had more than once, in the preceding days, come with kindly 
sympathy among the mourners where the dead priest lay. And 
so, too, besides many Protestants who showed the last marks of 
respect to the vigilant and uncompromising Catholic pastor, others 
wrote to express their regret that distance or imperative duties 
hindered them from being present. Thus Mr. Edward Greer, J.P., 
Chairman of the Ulster Land Commission, wrote of “the good 
and worthy Father O’Neill”: “I knew him since I was a boy, 
and experienced many acts of kindness from him. He was a man 
of strong will and strong opinions, but of a kindly, gentle heart.” 

Yes, he was a man of strong-opinions, and fearless in upholding 
them. Neither his piety nor his patriotism was cherished vaguely 
in the abstract, but they had a knack of throwing themselves into 
very sharply defined concrete forms. And thiscircumstance adds 
force to the testimony of another who had scant sympathy with 
Father O’Neill’s views on sundry burning questions, though the 
barrier of a different faith did not lie between them. Major John 
Ross of Bladensburg is the head of a County Down family which 
(besides mother and sister) has given to the Catholic Church just 
as many converts of mature years as the De Veres of County 
Limerick. On the 17th of April he writes from London to say 
how “shocked and grieved” he was at “the very sad news of the 
sudden death of poor Father O'Neill.” “I deeply regret that I 
cannot be at home to be present at the funeral. I can only say I 
shall be with you in spirit with my whole heart.” Mr. Daniel 
Crilly, M.P., “ feels that one of the strongest links that bound him 


Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. 329 


to his boyhood’s days in Rostrevor and Killowen is now broken.” 
From London also Sir Charles Russell writes as follows :— 

é We were shocked to hear of the sudden death of Father O'Neill. It is some 
consolation to remember the holy and useful life he led, and to know that at his 
final hour he had the sacred rites of that religion to whose service, by precept and 
example, his life was devoted. He was one of my oldest friends, and for none had 
Ia higher regard and esteem.’’ , 

On the 5th of May the venerable president of the Insh 
College at Rome, Dr. Tobias Kirby, Archbishop of Ephesus, 
wrote to Father Andrew Lowry :— 

é I am very thankful for the telegram you so thoughtfully sent me, announcing 
the painful event, painful to his surviving friends, but, we have so much reason to 
hope, thrice happy to the faithful priest, of whom we confidently trust it was said 
by our divine Lord Himself: Ubi ego sum, illic et minister meus crit. His death 
was indeed a most consoling one, and a beautiful close of his eminently useful 
priestly career, as was testified also by the universal regret manifested on the 
occasion by all who knew him, according to the divine promise: Timenti Dominun 
bene crit in extremis, et in die defunctionis suac benedicetur.”” 

The day after Father O’Neill’s funeral was Good Shepherd 
Sunday—the second Sunday after Easter, which alone takes its 
popular name from its Gospel. Many could not help applying 
that Gospel to this faithful imitator of the Bonus Pastor. He 
was ready to lay down his life for his sheep, or (what is more to 
the point in these days) he was ready to spend his life, and he 
spent his life, in unflagging, unwavering, and most earnest devoted- 
ness to the temporal and eternal welfare of every one of the souls 
entrusted to his care. “I know my sheep.” Father O'Neill knew 
every man, woman, child, and baby through all the length and 
breadth of his parish. His vigilant care of the children was 
untiring. He insisted on finding time to preside at every distribu- 
tion of prizes, on every little social occasion or religious ceremony, 
Just as in earlier years in Newry he was never absent from any 
meeting of the St. Vincent de Paul Society, which he had been 
the first to introduce into the North.” Hé loved his people, and 


* Another instance of his being remarkable from the first for that for which he 
‘was remarkable to the last is this: as the noon of his last day on earth found him 
at his usual hour of prayer before the Blessed Sacrament in his church, so in his 
first years as a young curate in Newry he was noted for the fervour and recollection 
of his “‘ visits’ in the Cathedral at fixed hours every day. He made it an inviolable 
rule to have the Divine Office for the day finished before dinner. We have omitted, 
we believe, to claim for him at the proper place the merit of having established in 
Wewry the Brothers of the Christian Schools. 


Vou. xv. No. 204. 73 





ú 


330 The Irish Monthly. 


they loved him in return; but with their love was mingled a 
wholesome filial fear, for they knew how watchful their Father 
was, and how strict and firm and unbending wherever duty and 
conscience were concerned. 

This is enough, and, perhaps, more than enough, to. gay about 
one who never dreamed of occupying so much space in a magazine. 
Of the two names placed at the head of this paper the more digni- 
fied one might have been omitted this month, for our thoughts 
have been engrossed by our more recent loss. But Father O’Neill 
would have been glad, if his name were to be mentioned at all, to 
have it thus linked with Dr. Blake’s; and on our part we should 
hardly have allowed the private friendship of a lifetime to single 
out for public notice one good priest from all the hundreds of good 
priests in Ireland, if the moment of his death had not found us 
engaged in putting into print the letters which his saintly bishop 
had addressed to him when he had only gone through the ‘fourth 
part of his course as a priest. But now that we have named 
bishop and priest together almost by accident, we have no difficulty 
in discovering other bonds of union between them, for it seems to 
us that the strength of each of them lay in the same characteristic, 
which might be called thorough priestliness. Though they were 
both men of excellent abilities, they certainly had not the gifts of 
many who in similar positions did not do half their work; and 
their distinction consisted in the quiet persistence with which they 
went through every duty that came in their way. Who but the 
Searcher of hearts and the Judge of the living and the dead can 
duly estimate the heroism of sanctity that is involved in almost 
half a century of priesthood, so free from faults and shortcomings, 
and so full of virtues and labours, as was the sacerdotal career of 
Father Patrick O’ Neill of Rostrevor ? 


MOTHER OF GOD, O MOTHER! 
Ta: lamp burns low in a silent room ; 
Tread slowly, oh! tread slowly— 
For a winsome child in ita sunniest bloom 
Is awaiting the tread and summons of doom, 
And the skeleton, Death, creeps on through the gloom: 
Save us, O Virgin holy ! 


An Unpublished Letter of D’ Arcy McGee. 381 


The mother watcheth with many a prayer, 
Heart-broken, oh ! heart-broken ; 

And her fingers play with the golden hair, 

And she kisses the lily hand so fair : 

For her life’s young idol is lying there, 
And the deeps in her heart are woken. 

To watch all night and all day is long, 
And anguish oh ! hard to smother ; 

And idle to live when all looks wrong— 

Just then, like the voice of a seraph’s song, 

I heard her whisper : ‘‘ Oh thou art strong, 
Mother of God, O Mother ! ” 


And a stir came over the trancelike rest, 
And a smile on the face, and another ; 
And the cheeks grew red as the sunlit crest, 
And the mother cried out in accents blest, 
As she strained her child in joy to her breast : 
. “ Mother of God, O Mother! ” - 
Rrowarp O’Kennepy. 


AN UNPUBLISHED LETTER OF D’ARCY McGEE. 


rae first pages of our seventeenth volume (1889) printed 
several interesting letters which Thomas D’Arcy McGee 
had written to the Rev. C. P. Meehan. We received them from 
Father Meehan himself; but this new letter, written to the same 
correspondent, we owe to the kindness of Count Plunkett, from 
whose private note we may take a few sentences about The 
Hibernian Magazine to which McGee refers :— 

“é That Magazine underwent various changes, being at one time 
called Duffy’s Hibernian Sizpenny Magazine ; and at long intervals 
McGee contributed verse and, I believe, prose to it, although 
(usually at least) without his name. * * * Perhaps you can tell 
who ‘ Celticus’ was. The name is very suggestive of the Editor of 
The American Celt ;’and yet MoGee could hardly produce as fine 
work as ‘The Mantle of Dunlaing,’ a ballad with the above 
signature in the Number for April, 1862. 

é“ McGee’s letter is, I think, timely—because addressed to one 
whom we have lost so lately by a great Irishman whose memory 


382 The Irish Monthly. 


is being revived at this moment; because it deals with a question 
still urgent, the unsatisfied mental and moral hunger of our 
people in America (and also at home); because it shows our 
nationality and religion to be almost inseparable; and because it 
makes as strong a plea for Irish brain-work at home as abroad. 

“This letter was evidently written in feverish haste. It is not 
only worded carelessly, but scored and smudged. Its plain sim- 
plicity raises a more practical question than has either of the clever 
papers that have lately appeared on Catholicity in America—the 
optimist paper in The Irish Eeclesiastical Record and the (may I 
say pessimist ?) paper in The Lyceum.” 


“Montreal, 


“June 24th, 1860. 
+‘ My pear Farner Meenan, . 


é“ IT have been eo with law examinations (I am to be a Canadian Barrister 
next year) and other work, that I have not yet had time to cast into shape 
one or two of the sketches which are already modelled for you in my own mind, I 
send you, just to put my initials in the new magazine from the start, a few verses 
which I trust you will not think unfit for ite pages: the sketches in a mail or two, for 

cortain. 

‘‘ The ballad of St. Kieran had hardly gone till I bethought me of that blunder. 
I wish our friend of the Nation had so altered it. If it ever reappears in Ireland, in 
your time, may I ask you to substitute the plain English ‘the Porter stoop'd his 

oad ’ for the present solecism. 

“The reason I am so interested for Mrs. Sadlier is that we have no other 
woman, and but few (oh, how few!) men, working for our myriad emigrants on 
this continent. There is absolute danger of their children forgetting they ever had 
a fatherland, Just as the writings of Vallancey, Theophilus O’Flanigan, &c., 
with all their errors, kept the lamp alight some fifty years ago, so do we poor 
bookmakers for the Irish in America— without public libraries, and without a 

blic, in any organic or unorganic sense—strive to fill the bulb with something 
that will yield a flame, till better pens in better times may do the work more 
worthily. TZherefore be merciful in your judgments of what we do, remembering 
less what might have been done, as the best, than that the fear was everything of 
this kind would have been left undone till too late. 

‘‘T have not heard from Williams for long. I have no doubt, however, that 
any letter directed with his full name to New Orleans would find him. He was 
there, school-teaching, a year or two ago. There is, you will see, nearly as much 
land between him and me as there is sea between yourself and either of us. 

“ I grieve for M‘Carthy, and for poor old Carry, to whom I owe a long letter. 
Alas! that the storm should fall on such honoured heads as theirs ! . 

é“ I feel tly encouraged to try my hand at other bite of our scenic history by 
what you tell me of O’Donovan’s pleasure in my ‘ Four Masters.’ It was from him 
I learned to know Zeige an Sleibhe and the rest of those worthies. If the picture 
has any merit, it is due more to his instruction than to any art of mine. . 

‘* If not Sadlier, then Haverty of New York ought to be written to, to act as 
agent for the Hibernian. All success attend you. I am not sure that I am known 
to Haverty ; but, if so, will you be good enough to make him [sic] my very best 
regards ? 

“ Most truly yours, 
“T7. D. M‘Gzz. 


‘‘My wife was delighted at your remembrance of her. We are all on the qui 
tice for ‘ No. 1, vol. 1.’ 


“ My best regards to Mr. James Duffy and all your co-laborers.—T. D. M‘G.”’ 


Notes on New Books. 3383 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. “The One Mediator, or Sacrifice and Sacraments,” by the Rev. 
William Humphrey, 8.J. (London: Burns and Oates), is the latest of 
the many valuable additions that Father Humphrey has made to 
Catholic literature, and indeed to Catholic theology in English. The 
solid substance of theological thought is here, without any obtrusive 
attempt at making it attractive for those who will not be attracted 
towards it for its own sake. The style is clear, precise, forcible, but 
quiet and restrained. Father Humphrey aims at enlightening the 
understanding, and not at moving the feeling further than the truths 
explained must necessarily move them when explained as kindly as 
they are explained here. In fourteen chapters, which are admirably 
analysed in the table of contents, he treats of the sacrifice of the Mass, 
of the sacraments in general, and of each of the seven sacraments in 
particular ; of the created holiness and human knowledge of our 
Redeemer, of Mary as Mother of God, of the adoration of the Sacred 
Heart of Jesus, of the indwelling of the Holy Ghost, and of the 
Beatific Vision. To enumerate these subjects and to name the 
author who discusses them, will be sufficient recommendation for any 
of our readers who are able to appreciate such a work. 


2. The Very Rev. Dr. Gerald Molloy has issued the fifth edition 
of his delightful account of ‘‘ The Passion Play at Ober Ammergau.” 
Even for those who have never seen and never hope to see this 
wonderful drama, there is a great fascination in Dr. Molloy’s pages, 
while the book is indispensable for those who are plotting a visit to 
the valley of the Ammer. For these the new information given in 
the preface to this edition about the actors in the coming representa- 
tion will have special interest. Two performances shall have already 
taken place before this notjce comes under the reader’s eye. The 
other days fixed are June 1, 8, 15, 16, 22, 25, 29; July 6, 13, 20, 23, 
27; August 3, 6, 10, 17, 20, 24, 31 ; and September 3, 7, 14, 21, 28. 
The motto on the title-page of this book is exquisitely appropriate. 
Ponsonby and Weldrick, of the University Press, have produced the 
dainty quarto with fitting elegance of typography. 

3. Mesars. John Murphy & Co., of Baltimore, Maryland, have sent 
us three of their recent publications. ‘ Kathleen Mavourneen,” by 
Misa Clara Mulbulland, author of Zhe Miser of King’s Court, etc., is not 
a reprint, but is produced originally by this American firm. This 
unusual. circumstance makes it more worthy of encouragement. But 
the tale itself is sure to attract readers, for it is full of grace and 


~_—_ ee a 


334 The Irssh Monthly. 


interest. However, we cannot conscientiously advise the Sheffield 
School Board to order two hundred copies for prizes, as they did in 
the case of Miss Rosa Mulholland’s Gtannetta, for “Kathleen 
Mavourneen” also betrays considerable sympathy with the Irish 
peasantry, and would be sure to provoke another war in the local news- 
papers. The Sheffield boys and girls thus miss a very pretty tale. 


4. Another story from the same Publishers is ‘1791: a Tale of 
St. Domingo,” by E. W. Gilliam, M.D. It is founded on the true — 
records of a terrible crisis in the history of this island, and has thus 
novelty on ite side. Its literary merit is guaranteed by the circum- 
stance that it ran through the pages of Zhe Catholic World, though it 
cannot claim to be a worthy successor of Miss Tincker’s “‘Grapes and 
Thorns,” or of Miss Mulholland’s “ Fair Emigrant.’ 


5. The same Publishers also have produced in a fine, solid octavo 
volume, “Carmel in America: a centennial history of the Discalced 
Carmelites in the United States,” by Charles Warren Ourrier, Priest 
of the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer. Father Currier has 
fulfilled his labour of love with a thoroughness worthy of his dis- 
tinguished English confrére, Father Bridgett. It was fortunate for 
the American Oarmelites that the excellent James M‘Master died 
before writing their history. From what we remember of his work in 
the New York Freeman’s Journal, we suspect he was too original to ' 
prove a satisfactory historian. But Father Currier is laborious, con- 
scientious, and enthusiastically devoted to his subject, and he has 
availed himself with the utmost diligence of the researches of many 
helpers almost equally interested in the enterprise. The result is an 
extremely valuable addition to the historical literature of the Church, 
not confined always to “ Carmel in America.” The alphabetical index 
of family names that occur in the work fills many pages at the end, 
and we notice a great many that are unmistakably Irish. 


6. From the great religious poem, ‘‘ The End of Man,” by Father 
Albany Christie, 8.J., the author has chosen certain portions illustra- 
ting the feasts of the year and all the Sundays, each having a paye of 
its own. These with loving skill have, with the aid of the Manresa 
Press, been made into a very holy and pretty book, the name of which, — 
“ Chimes for Holydays,” was suggested by one of those characteristic 
phrases of Cardinal Newman which one likes to pick up wherever one 
meets them. In June, 1886, the Cardinal—whom Father Christie 
calls ‘‘a dear friend to whom more than to any other man I owe under 
God my conversion’’—wrote about the metre employed in The End of 
Han: “The ternary metre is like a chime of bells from a church 
tower, praising and proclaiming Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.” 


7 


Notes on New Books. 335 


7. Price sixpence, with the name in gold on brown paper, which 
Philistines will consider aesthetically ugly, we welcome a second 
edition of “ Poems and Ballads of Young Ireland” (Dublin: M. H. 
Gill and Son). It is full of fresh and beautiful poetry; but for us 
the special surprises of the little volume are ‘“Shameen Dhu,” by 
Katbarine Tynan, and the Hush Song by George Noble Plunkett. It 
is not their beauty that surprises us, but their unexpected sort of 
beauty. 


8. Another second edition of a work of a very different kind is 
“ Principles of Religious Life,” by the Very Rev. Francis Cuthbert 
Doyle, 0.8.B. (London : Washbourne). That a large octavo volume of 
ample pages should reach a second edition, even after seven years, is 
a proof of the solid merits of this very elaborate treatise, when we 
remember the limited constituency to which such a work can appeal, 
In an appendix an analysis is given of each of the sections ; and this 
in itself proves the copiousness of the matter, and the methodical 
manner in which it is conveyed. But what is the meaning of the four 
capital letters which take the place of Fints or “ The End?” All of 
us are familiar with ‘‘A. M. D. G.” ; but this is the first time that we 
have noticed the initials, I. 0. G. D. 


9. “ Notes on Electric Lighting,” by the Rev. Gerald Molloy, 
D.D., D. Sc. (M. H. Gill and Son), are reissued in a sixpenny 
pamphlet, ‘‘ with many advantages of paper, type, and form which 
they did not enjoy on their first appearance” in The Freeman's Journal. 
If punning were not strictly prohibited on these premises, we might 
remark that | Dr. Molloy throws considerable light on one of the 
burning questions of the day ; and certainly his present contribution 
to popular knowledge is another proof of that special faculty for im- 
parting scientific information in the olearest and most attractive 
manner which Zhe Spectator, The Scotsman, Nature, and other critical 
journals discovered in his delightful volume called “ Gleanings in 
Science.” 


10. Another good sixpenceworth is ‘‘ Easy Lessons in Cookery,” by 
Miss Mary Todd (Dublin : M. H. Gill and Son). Our own 
acquaintance with the subject is confined to a more advanced stage of 
the proceedings ; but Miss Todd is a professor of cookery and eke “a 
first class diplomée,” and we are sure young house-keepers will find 
these pages pleasant and profitable. Even a non-professional reader 
ean see at a glance that the style is clear, condensed, and pointed : 


‘for even in such matters there is room for the display of a good or a 


bad style. 


336 The Irish Monthly. 


11. “ Bt. Brigid, Abbess of Kildare,” by Mrs. ‘Atkinson, is the 
latest publication of the Catholic Truth Society. This admirable 
sketch costs only two pence, and tells in fifty pages, and in a clear and 
winning style, all that is known of St. Brigid’s career and of the Irish 
Church of her time. We are glad that ‘‘S. A.,” the biographer of Mrs. 
Aikenhead, has put her name in full on this new title-page. St. 
Brigid was the first Irish Nun, and our good Nuns ought to secure a 
wide circulation for this charming little biography. 


12. Let us name in one paragraph a pile of tiny tomelets of piety. 

‘Veni Sancte Spiritus” is the newest of Father Richard Clarke’s 
excellent penny meditation-books, consisting of short meditations, 
each a single page, from the Ascension to the octave of Corpus Christi. 
Dean Kinane of Cashel has made an excellent compilation of short in- 
dulgenced aspirations in eight pages of compact printing, which may 
‘be got from M. H. Gill and Son, for 1s. 6d. a hundred. “Gems for 
my Crown,” by a Child of Mary (M. H. Gill and Son), is a peculiarly 
neat little book of pious thoughts, 365 in number, evidently meant to 
stretch over the year, though not distinguished between months and 
days. A Sister of Mercy has translated from the 12th French edition 
“The Twelve Virtues of a Good Teacher,” by Father Pottier, 8.J. 
(Benziger: New York). ‘‘ The Virgin Mother of Good Counsel” has 
been compiled as a new Month of May from Mgr. George Dillon’s work 
by a new Benedictine Nun of Ventnor. 


13. The Rev. Richard O’Kennedy, 0.O. Patrick's Well, Co. 
Limerick, has just issued an extremely useful little book, price two- 
pence, ‘‘ Benediction Hymns Explained’? (James Duffy and Co). 
The pious faithful in Ireland show in many places a peculiarly eager 
fondness for this sacred rite, and many of them will be glad to have 
the Latin hymns expounded here fully word for word. Another 
pitssimus Libellulus by the same author is “ The Holy Hour of Prayer” 
(Dublin: Dollard). His little book, Anima Christi, is much more 
than the explanatory sub-title claims for it. It treats very simply but 
fully and profoundly of the soul of Christ, of His body, and of His 
Blessed Mother. The printing is very good but very minute. If 
printed like the same author’s treatise on the Holy Angels (Burns and 
Oates), it would be almost as large, instead of being crammed into 
ninety pages of brevier. But his London publishers charge five 
shillings, whereas threepence is the price of Anima Christi. 


14. The Presentation Nuns of Sneem, Co. Kerry, put no pub- 
lisher’s name on the title-page of their translation of ‘‘ The Catechism 
of the Child of Mary,” for which they have procured the Jmprimatur 
of all the archbishops of Ireland, England, and Scotland. 


JULY, 1890. 
xII—II—— 


A STRIKING CONTRAST. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE MISER OF KINGSOOURT,”’ (“THE STRANGE ADVENTURES 
OF LITTLE SNOWDROP,’”’ ETO. 





OHAPTER XIII. 
LORD ASHFIELD I8 MUCH PUZZLED. 


S Lady Ashfield seated herself before the glass in her dressing- 
room, and called to her maid to bring her some Eau de 
Cologne, a sharp knock was heard on the door and a cheery voice 
said gaily : 
“ May I come in, mother? ”” 
Lady Ashfield smiled. All her cares were forgotten in an instant. 
In the presence of her son, her idol, she knew no sorrow. 
‘‘ Certainly, dear boy,” she cried, “come in by all means.” 
Lord Ashfield was in radiant spirits, and his eyes were full’ of 
happiness as he kissed his mother. 
“ What, not dressed yet, Ashfield? It is nearly dinner time.” 
“Yes,” he answered, throwing himself into an arm-chair, “I am 
a bit late. But I don’t take long to dress. I'll be ready in time, 
mater mine.” 
“I hope so. Sylvia dines with us to-night.” 
“Does she? That's right. But, mother, I have such a splendid 
piece of news for you.” 
‘Indeed, Ashfield ?”’ she replied absently, and bending forward 
to arrange the diamond pins in her hair. “ What is it?” 
“Something you have been wishing should happen this ever so 
long has come off at last. Guess what it is, mother.” 
“I never could guess anything, dear boy. Perhaps one of your 
favourites has won a race.” 
Ashfield laughed heartily. 
Vou. xv, No. 206. 74 


338 | The Irish Monthly. 


“Now, did you ever wish that to happen, mother ?” 

é“ Not exactly. But really, dear, you should go and dress. This 
news will keep.” 

“Qh, no it won't. But here’goes. Well, after long searching 
and many unsuccessful inquiries, I have at last found the Neiis, Dora 
and her sister.” 

‘‘ Indeed,”’ said Lady Ashfield coldly, ‘‘ that is quite an unexpected 
event. And how did it happen ?”’ 

Ashfield looked at her curiously. — 

“Why, mother, how calmly you take my news. You don’t seem 
much pleased. I thought you would be delighted.” 

She laughed nervously, and looked about impatiently for some 
missing article. 

‘‘ Sarah is so careless. I can’t find my ruby ring. Ah, here it is. 
Yes, yes, of course, I am glad, dear. But is it necessary to be quite 
as excited as you are? I thought we should probably find them 
some day. Where did you meet them?” 

“TI did not meet them. But I came to find them in rather a 
curious fashion. You remember Paul Vyner ?” 

“What, the artist?” 

Lady Ashfield started round as{she asked this question, her face 
full of interest. 

‘Yes. He is an artist. One of the best fellows — 

“You need not tell me his perfections,”’ she said stiffly, and turn- 
ing back to her glass. ‘‘ But I thought he was in America.” 

“Was. But is in London. I’ve been sitting to him for my 
portrait.” 

“ What folly!” 

‘‘Folly? My dear mother, why should it be folly ?”” 

‘Because you know we should keep that young man at'as 
great a distance as possible, Ashfield.” 

é“ My dear mother, I am sorry to be obliged to contradict you. 
But I really know nothing of the kind.” 

‘‘Have you then forgotten all that happened before he went 
away?” 

‘No, mother. I remember perfectly well. I remember how 
Sir Eustace Atherstone educated him, took him to Italy, treated him 
in every way like his son, till. one day he discovered, through Paul's 
own manly confession, that he loved his granddaughter, Sylvia, and 
that he then cast him off, allowing him to shift for himself, refusing 
to see or help him. This, of course, affects the Atherstones, but what 
it has to do with us I cannot see.” 

“You are very dense, my son, or surely you would see that it 


A Striking Contrast. | 339 


would be better to keep this young man at a distance just at present. 
‘You know what my hopes are where Sylvia is concerned —and—and 
this handsome artist, with his wrongs and grievances, may prove a 
formidable rival.” 

Lord Ashfield sprang to his feet and took two or three turns up 
and down the room. His face was flushed, his eyes full of anger. 
But presently he grew calmer, and coming close to his mother, he 
laid his hand affectionately on her shoulder, and bent to kiss her 
cheek. 

“ Mother mine,” he said gently, ‘‘ you must not build castles in 
the air. You have no right to form any hopes, or speculate in any 
way, about my future—or Sylvia’s. Zhatis in our hands. You, my 
mother, must not imterfere.”’ 

“ Ashfield !”” 

“I mean it, mother.’ He smiled playfully. ‘Ti have no 
match-making. I'll gang my own gate, as the Scotchman says, and 
marry who and when I please. But you may rest assured that Tl 
never ask you to receive a daughter-in-law who is not in every sense 
a lady.” 

Lady Ashfield looked up lovingly into his handsome, honest face. 

“ My son, I never doubted that. But I did hope ”—— 

He held up a warning finger. 

“That is just what I object to. You must not hope anything. 
At least you must not talk of your hopes.” 

é“ Very well. I'll promise that.” 

“Thanks. That is something gained. And now as to Vyner.” 

His mother moved impatiently on her chair. 

“I take no interest in him, I assure you.” 

“ My dear mother, how unjust you great ladies can be! If Paul 
were an earl or a duke, you would not forbid me to cultivate his 
acquaintance lest, perhaps, he might become a rival.” 

Lady Ashfield frowned. 

“That is quite a different thing. It is preposterous that a poor, 
struggling artist should dare to aspire to Miss Atherstone’s hand.” 

é“ And yet Miss Atherstone will have money enough for ” 

‘¢ Ashfield, you annoy me exceedingly. These new radical ideas 
of yours are atrocious. If a man be good, honest, and clever, you 
care nothing for family or wealth ; all men are equal in your eyes.” 

Ashfield laughed good-humouredly. 

“ Not quite, mother dear. The good, clever men are infinitely 
superior to the mere men of family or wealth. But, pray forgive me 
if I annoyed you. I did not wish to doso, I assure you. And now, 
let us forget that the Atherstones ever knew Vyner, and remember 





340 The Irish Monthly. 


only that he has done us a great service, and that we owe him a 
debt of gratitude.” 

“How ao, pray?” 

“ Because through him I discovered the Neils ”” 

Lady Ashfield’s mouth was set in cold, hard lines. 

‘“‘ Indeed,” she said icily. ‘That was a great service, truly.” 

‘“‘A very great one, mother, and I cannot tell you how thankful 
I feel. This morning I was in bad spirits. I thought we should 
never discover them. And on entering Vyner’s studio, he remarked 
upon my miserable expression. I told him the story without mention- 
ing the Neils’ names, never imagining for an instant that he could 
assist me. The good fellow was full of sympathy. ‘But,’ he said, 
‘you must cheer up. I could not paint such a doleful countenance. 
Come into my room and look at my treasures. They may enliven you ' 
somewhat.’ 

“He led me into a little sanctum hung round with all kinds of 
curios. But what attracted me, fixed my attention at once, were two 
small pictures—two of the most lovely heads that I have ever seen in 
my life. One had a cloud of rich auburn hair, large, luminous, dark 
eyes and ”— 

“ Sylvia! What audacity !” 

‘‘ Audacity, mother? To paint the friend of his boyhood, his 
almost sister for fourteen long years. One could hardly call that 
audacity. However, that we may discuss another time. I want to 
finish my story. Side by side with this beautiful painting was 
another. Oh, mother, had you seen it your heart, which this evening 
seems like ice, must have melted. It resembled the head of an angel, 
fair and pure, Masses of golden hair clustering round a marble brow, 
eyes of the deepest, darkest blue; but over all an air of sadness and 
melancholy not natural in one so young. Vyner saw my admiration, 
and did not speak for a moment, unwilling to disturb my reverie. 

é“ Are they not a striking contrast?’ he asked at last. 

“I nodded. [could not speak. I felt on the verge of tears. 

“é And their lives,’ he continued, ‘ are as great a contrast as their 
looks. More, I should say, for though their faces are different, they 
are both beautiful, whilst their lives—alas! there indeed is the con- 
trast. One surrounded with every luxury, the other plunged in 
the most dire poverty and want,’ 

“ ¢Ts that true?’ I cried. ‘Oh, Vyner, I know them both. One 
is Miss Atherstone, the beautiful heiress. The other is '—— 

“ ‘Little Dora Neil, the dressmaker’s apprentice.’ 

‘¢ “Where did you find her?” 

‘‘¢ Find her? My dear Ashfield, she is close tous. She and her 
sister live in the rooms just over these.’ 


A Striking Contrast. 34] 


“TI seized his hand and shook it warmly. Yes, mother, you may 
shake your head, but I did not take the discovery as quietly as you 
do. I felt overjoyed, and longed to rush upstairs to see them at once. 
But Vyner restrained me. ‘ Dora was ill. Her sister was out,’ he said. 
‘So it would be better to wait. I might startle her if I went up to 
her then.’ Suddenly we heard the sound of singing. ‘ That is Dora,’ 
cried Vyner. ‘She has such a sweet, plaintive voice. Poor child! 
Her life is hard for one so frail and delicate.’ 

é“ ¢ She shall lead it no longer,’ I said. ‘That is the girl I was so 
anxious to find, Vyner. And she, small and fragile as she is, once 
saved my life and my mother’s. For years we have lost sight of her, 
neglected her. But, thank God, I have found her, and I will now 
see that she wants for nothing. I must speak to her to-night.’ And, 
heedless of Vyner’s remonstrances, I rushed upstairs. On the landing 
I could distinctly hear her song, that quaint little Scotch one about 
castles in the air. Unwilling to interrupt her, I stood still and 
listened. Suddenly a rough, fierce-looking, old man brushed quickly 
past me, and muttering ‘I’ll make her sing,’ burst unceremoniously 
into her room. The song ceased abruptly, and the intruder’s voice 
fell on my ear. His tone was insolent, his language threatening. 
Then in reply came Dora’s sweet pleading words. And oh, mother, 
it would have made you weep to hear her sobs and heart-rending 
prayer for mercy. But the landlord was obdurate. Nothing would 
move him. He must have his rent, or she and her sister must leave 
his house next day. And then he came away, leaving her, I am 
sure, plunged in an agony of grief. But, thank God, I was there to 
etay his cruel hand. As he walked downstairs, I met him, and there 
and then paid the small amount of rent that was due. He returned 
to tell our little friend the good news, but under promise not to 
reveal my name, and I came off to tell you that I had at last dis- 
covered her.” 

“It is strange,” said Lady Ashfield, “ that I too have learned her 
whereabouts this very evening, though in a less romantic fashion. 
Her sister has called upon me at last.” 

“Mother! Why did you not tell me so at once? Are you not 
delighted ? ”” 

“ My dear Ashfield, how excitable you are. Finding these girls 
seems to have turned your head.” 

“ Not quite, mother. But I confess it has given me great pleasure. 
Your manner, however, puzzles me immensely. Did you not like 
Miss Madge?”’ 

“No, not much. Her words—her—in fact, I was disap- 
pointed in her.” 


349 The Irish Monthty. 


Ashfield looked what he f :lt—deeply pained. - 

“I am sorry for that. Dura’s sister should be charming.” 

‘‘She is not, or says she is not, the girl’s sister after all,” rose to 
' Lady Ashfield’s lips. But she stopped abruptly. ‘Why tell Ash- 
field this mad story?” she thought. ‘It is nonsense, and I hope he 
may never hear it. He shall certainly not do so from me.” 

é“ Well?” he inquired, ‘‘ she is not what?” 

‘“‘ At all like Dora. She is dark and strong—a tall, rather good- 
looking young woman, but lacking the extreme refinement of her 
little sister.” 

“But she is a lady?” he questioned anxiously. ‘‘She must be 
that.” 

Lady Ashfield flushed. It was unpleasant to be catechised so 
persistently about a person who had annoyed her so much. She did 
not care to see her son take such an interest in these Neils. And yet 
such is the perversity of men, she knew that, did she but attempt to 
disparage Madge, it would only increase that interest, and make him 
more anxious than ever to look after her and her sister. 

“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly, after a slight pause. ‘‘She is a 
lady. But very proud. And she did not seem as poor as you think 
they are.” 

‘‘Ah, that shows me how noble she is. She did not care to parade 
her poverty to a stranger. I like that spirit,” he cried warmly. 
“ But, of course, you promised to get her lessons and help her all you 
could.” 

“Yes. But she drew herself up proudly and declined my help.” 

“Mother! you must have offended her. You must apologise 
and insist on helping her.” 

Something in Lord Ashfield’s manner and words stung his mother 
to anger; and forgetting her usual caution in her wrath, she replied 
indignantly : 

é“ I most certainly decline to do anything of the kind. Miss Madge 
refused my help, and I have no intention of pressing my services 
upon her. And now, Ashfield, go and dress for dinner. We have 
discussed this matter long enough. Our guests may arrive in a few 
moments.” 

“ One word, mother. Will you forget your quarrel with Madge 
and send for her again ?”’ 

‘No, I cannot promise to do that,” she answered stiffly. “My 
maid shall go and see Dora to-morrow and take her a few delicacies.” 

é“ I did not ask you to help them in that way,” he said in a tone of 
grave displeasure. “It is surely making the girl a poor return for 
her brave conduct, doling out charity to her by the hands of your 
maid.”’ 


A Striking Contrast. 343 


“You must allow me to be a judge of what is right, Ashfield. I 
flatter myself I know more about these matters than you.” 

‘Perhaps so. But I must confess I am much puzzled by your 
conduct. You are not acting as I expected you would when we 
discovered these girls. But now I must go aud dress.” 

And for the first time for many years Lord Ashfield left his 
mother’s presence with a heavy cloud upon his brow. 


CHAPTER XIV. 
WHO I8 BYLVIA? 


. After an absence of many years Sir Eustace Atherstone has at last 
made up his mind to spend the season in London. Immediately after 
the arrival of his granddaughter and her nurse he had retired to his 
country seat, where he remained till the girl was sixteen. Then, for 
her sake, he suddenly renounced the life he loved and went abroad. 
For Sylvia was his first, his constant thought, and her happiness 
the principal object of his existence. From the moment that he had 
received her from Anne Dane, a poor little mite, just rescued from a 
watery grave, he had surrounded her with everything that love or 
wealth could imagine or suggest. 

Up to the age of sixteen the girl had been instructed in all the 
important branches of education by the best teachers England could 
produce. Then, all at once, it dawned upon the young lady that she 
knew absolutely nothing of the world. That she had never heard 
good music, or seen any of the fine pictures and sculpture that she 
had read so mueh about—that her French and German were weak, 
hergltalian weaker. She mentioned these facts one day, somewhat 
plaintively, to her grandfather. And he, without a thought for him- 
self or his probable discomfort in foreign lands, instantly resolved 
that they should travel, and that Sylvia should thus have every 
opportunity for learning modern languages and generally improving 
her mind. 

For two years they wandered about from place to place, staying 
six months here and three there. Till at last their time was up, and 
Sylvia was eighteen, and her entrance into society could no longer be 
delayed. Then they turned their faces homewards, and arrived in 
London a few days before the Drawingroom, at which Mies Ather- 
stone was to be presented by Lady Ashfield. 


A 


344 The Irish Monthly. 


On the morning of the day which this important event in his 
‘ granddaughter’s life was to occur, Sir Eustace sat alone in his hand- 
some library. Round about him on the table were books, papers and 
letters. But he was not reading. He seemed lost in thought. And 
. to judge by the expression of his face, there was a good deal of sad- 
ness mixed up with his reflections. 

“Yes,” he murmured half aloud, “I miss him. Here, in this 
room, where Paul as a little boy used to sit in the old, old days, poring 
over some big book, and looking up with a smile when I asked him a 
question, I miss him sadly. In foreign lands, amidst fresh scenes, 
and in the first burst of indignation at his folly, I fancied I did not 
care; but I find I do—for very dear was that lad to me after all. 
Poor Paul Vyner, with his bright face, and his warm enthusiastic 
‘nature. Why, oh, why did I send him from me? And yet I could 
not help it. It was necessary for Sylvia’s sake. So what matter how 
I, how he suffers, if she be happy, as she must—as she shall be. 
But how strange it seems that those I love are all forced for some 
reason or other to leave me. First my son, George. Then my wife 
and other children by death. Then Paul. And now who knows, 
perhaps, I may one day lose Sylvia, my pet, my treasure. Such a 
loss would kill me. And yet, after this, I may not be allowed to keep 
her long. Once presented, says Lady Ashfield, she must marry. 
Paul was banished because he loved her. My poor Paul! And now 
who knows what plot is being hatched, what conspiracy is on foot to 
rob me of her? Only last night Lady Ashfield hinted something 
darkly, asked strange questions about my darling’s fortune, and 
wanted to know if any change would ever be possible in my manner 
towards her, no matter what she did or became. What she meant I 
can’t imagine. As if any earthly thing could alter my love for my 
dearest child. Why even if——But here she comes! I declare 
the fire is nearly out. How stupid of me not to pay it more atten: 
tion.” 

Sir Eustace seized the poker and stirred the fire to a blaze. Then 
drawing an arm-chair to the fire, he sank into it with a sigh. 

The door opened slightly, and a merry voice called out: 

“May I come in, grandpapa? Mdme. Garniture promised to 
come early to help to dress me, as Désirée is rather innocent in the 
arrangement of court trains. But she has not arrived, and I am tired 
of sitting upstairs alone. I am in an unfinished state. But still”—— 

“Come in, love. Come in,” he cried. “My sweet Sylvia is 
welcome in any state. Her sunny face is just what I want to see.” 

‘You dear old darling,” said Sylvia; and tripping up to her 
grandfather’s chair, she gave him a loving kiss. 


A Striking Contrast. | 345 


“Unfinished !”’ he exclaimed. “ Why, my dear, you look lovely. 
That dress will be the prettiest in the palace. Is it a new style of 
court dress? In my day they were not that shape.” 

Sylvia burst into a peal of merry laughter. 

é You dear, good, stupid old grandfather! You don’t imagine I 
could go to Court in this? Why it’s only a tea gown.” 

“ Pink silk, cream lace, hair puffed and curled on the top of your 
little head. My child, you never wore such finery before.” 

“No. But you know I am out now. So, of course, my dresses 
are all quite different. And my hair is done up, ready for my 
feathers. Désirée does hair beautifully. But wait till you see me 
fully equipped for Court, grandpapa; you'll not know me, I’m sure. 
Feathers and veil, puffs and flowers, train ever so many miles—no, I 
mean yards long. I declare, dear, I shall feel like a cockatoo. And 
then, oh, pity my fate, I've got to go out in this nipping wind in a 
low body and short sleeves.” 

“I would not do it.” 

“ But it’s one of her Majesty’s commands. Surely, my dear, loyal, 
aristocratic Sir Eustace would not disobey his queen ?” 

‘‘ Sylvia, you are frivolous.”’ 

‘‘T am, grandpapa. Iam. But if I were not I should be cross. 
Listen, dear, and I shall tell you my woes.” 

And drawing over a low stool, she seated herself at his feet. 

, ‘Woes, my pet? Surely you have nothing to trouble you?” 
And he laid his hand caressingly upon her head. 

The girl turned the sunniest of faces towards him. Then heaving 

a deep sigh, replied : 
~ Oh, such a number!” 

Her manner and air were so comical, her whole expression so full 
of anything like sorrow, that Sir Eustace burst out laughing. 

“You naughty puss! As if you knew what trouble meant.” 

‘You are greatly mistaken,” she said pouting. ‘I know well 
what it means, for I have had many worries and troubles since—since 
I came out.” 

“ But you are not out till you are presented.” 

‘True. Well, then, troubles that come from the preparation 
necessary before taking the great step. In the first place, Lady Ash- 
field is, much annoyed because I would not do what she told me, and 
go to Mdme. Irma for my Court dress.” 

“ And why didn’t you?” 

“My dear Sir Eustace,” she said solemnly, “ Miss Atherstone 
may bestow her patronage where she chooses.” 

Her grandfather smiled. | i” 


346 The Irish Monthly. 


é“ To be sure. And where then did Miss Atherstone bestow it?" 

“ On dear old Garniture, of course. She has made my dressese— 
not quite since I was able to walk, but still for a very long time, and - 
I was not going to desert her just when she would most enjoy dress- 
ing me, merely because Irma is the fashion.” 

‘* Well, I don’t suppose Lady Ashfield cared.” ' 

é“ Oh, but she did. And that is one of my troubles. She was very 
proud and cross, and that made me more determined than ever—for 
you know I have a will of my own, dear.” 

é Most certainly you have, my pet. A more obstinate little person 

I never met.” 

é“ Not with you, grandpapa, not with you. I'd do anything you 
asked me.”’ 

She laid her cheek caressingly against his hand, and raised her 
large lustrous eyes lovingly to his. 

é I gave up Paul, dear foolish Paul, because you wished it. You 
have not forgotten that, grandpapa ? ”” 

And Sylvia’s sweet face grew crimson, and the sensitive mouth 
quivered ominously. 

“You did, my darling. You were ever gentle and obedient. 
To-day you go forth into the world, and others more eligible than 
Paul may see you, and want you. Lord Ashfield, for instance. His 
mother hinted broadly last night.” 

“Lord Ashfield shall never steal me from you. Do not be afraid. 
And do not pay attention to his mother’s hints. In this matter she 
will find me quite as obstinate as where Mdme. Garniture was con- 
cerned.” 

‘‘ But someone is sure to come and carry you off, my pet. There 

,is a strange feeling of terror over me to-day, Sylvia, that I cannot 
understand. It may be that your father ”’ 

‘‘My father! Oh, grandpapa, you could not surely be jealous of 
him. Poor, dear papa, who has not seen me for years and years, 
not since I was a tiny child. My darling, he shall not divide us, I 
know. He’ll come home and widen our circle—increase our family. 
Instead of separating us, he will draw us more together and strengthen 
our love.” . 

“ My dear, sweet child, would that my love íor you were not so 
selfish. For years I have longed for your father to return; but now 
as the hour approaches, I dread it lest he should take from me one 
iota of my little granddaug hter's heart.” 

‘He shall never do that. But, tell me, have you heard from 
papa lately?” 

‘This morning. He expects to be home in about six months.” 





A Striking Contrast. 347 


Sylvia clapped her hands; her face shone with joy. 

é“ What glorious news! How glad I shall be to see him. You 
don’t mind me saying that, dearest ? ”’ 

“ No, my pet. Such pleasure is natural, and shows what a loving 
child you are.” 

The girl did not speak for a moment, and seemed in deep thought. 

‘‘Grandpapa,” she said presently, “I wonder if papa would know 
me if he were to meet me and no one told him I was his child. Am I 
much changed since I came to you?” 

He examined her critically, his eyes full of loving admiration as 
they dwelt upon hor. 

é You were small then. You are now tall and graceful,” he said 
smniling. ‘‘ Your dark eyes are larger and darker, but your hair, 
complexion, and tiny mouth are almost the same. You were a lovely 
baby; you are a beautiful girl.” 

She jumped up, laid her arms about his neck, and kissed him with 
a tender love in her eyes. 

“Dear old flatterer,”’ she whispered, “do you wish to make me 
vain ?” 

“No. I don’t think that would be possible.” 

Sylvia laughed and blushed, and returned to her stool. 

“Then you think papa would know me?” 

‘‘That I can hardly tell. And yet I think he would. For truly 
you are but little changed since I first saw you. But still, I do not 
quite understand. Either he has forgotten what you were like, or the 
sea journey worked a considerable difference in your health and 
general appearance. I will let you hear what he has written about 
you.” 

And taking a letter from the table, Sir Eustace began to read. 

“I wonder what my darling is like now. I always think of her 
as the small, delicate baby with little pale, fair cheeks, that clung to 
me so lovingly as I bade her good-bye.” | 

“Now, when I met you at Gravesend, Sylvia,” said Sir Eustace, 
‘‘ you were as rosy as possible. As strong a child as ever lived.” 

‘‘The sea air had, of course, tanned my skin and made me look 
healthy,” answered Sylvia decidedly. “And I daresay papa has for- 
gotten. It is not easy to remember a baby’s face. But if he looked 
at my last likeness, he’d see pretty well what I am like; everyone said 
it was capital.” 

‘Yes. But listen, dear, to what he says.” And Sir Eustace con- 
tinued, the letter. 

“You cannot imagine how I long to see her, especially now, as I 
know she is grown up, and that I have made up my mind to go home 


348 ‘The Irish Monthly, 


soon. My thoughts are full of my daughter. It is strange that none 
of the photos you mentioned sending ever reached me. I probably 
missed them through wandering about so much. But I am just as 
glad I never saw them, for now she will burst upon me in all her 
beauty. For you tell me she is beautiful. Is she like my sweet wife, 
I wonder? But, of course,'you do not know that since you never saw 
her, and the miniature I sent was lost in the wreck. However, it 
matters little who she is like. She is my own beloved daughter, and 
as such she is inexpressibly dear. God bless her and you.” 

Sylvia’s eyes were full of tears, and taking her father’s letter from 
the old man’s hand, she pressed it to her lips. 

‘Poor papa, how full of love and longing is your letter! But 
why has he stayed away from us all these years, grandpapa ?”’ 

“Why? So you may ask. He, the heir to my name and rich 
estates. But he loved a wandering life, and could not bear the tram- 
mels of society. Now, as he grows older, he longs for home and his 
daughter’s love.” 

“ And he shall have both. Grandpapa, we must be very good and 
kind to him, you and I. But I wonder am I at all like my dead 
mother ?”’ 

é No, dearest, I think not, unless in expression. For she was 
small and fair. George told me so frequently in the first days of 
his married life. She was a fragile creature with golden hair, and 
large, child-like blue eyes.” 

Sylvia sighed. e 

' (That is not at all like me. Dear little mother. Who am I like, 
grandpapa? Do I remind you of papa?” 

And she glanced at the large portrait of George Atherstone, as a 
lad of nineteen, that hung over the mantelpiece. 

“No, dear. You are not like any member of our family. . You 
are an original Sylvia, perfectly unique in your own peculiar way.” 

The girl laughed and looked up roguishly into his face. 

“ Perhaps I am a changeling ?”’ 

é“ I should not be at all surprised,” he cried, pinching her cheek. 
“ Brought to us by the fairies, endowed with all their most precious 
gifts and graces.’’ 

How they jested, these two. Yet had they but guessed how near 
the truth they were, what cruel sorrow would have filled their hearts ! 

“Just so, grandpapa,” cried Sylvia gaily. ‘That sounds very 
pretty. And now I must really go and finish my toilet. If Iam not 
ready very soon, Lady Ashfield may have to wait, and ’—— 

“ Mdme. Garniture has gone to your room, Miss Atherstone,” said 
the footman opening the door. 


A Striking Contrast. 349 


‘I am glad. Good-bye, grandpapa.” And she tripped off uptairs. 

On the first landing hung an old-fashioned mirror, framed in some 
of Grinling Gibbons’ exquisite carving. In this Sylvia caught sight 
of her own face as she passed. 

‘Not at all like my mother. Alas! no. A fragile creature with 
golden hair. Ah!” 

Sylvia started and uttered a cry of surprise. Seated on a chair 
just outside her dressingroom door was a girl of about her own age. 
Small, slight, and fair, with a mass of pure golden hair, and large, 
sad, blue eyes. 

é“ Exactly what my darling might have been at eighteen. Poor 
little dead mother!” she thought as she looked at the stranger. 
‘¢ Sho just suits the picture I have made of her in my mind.” 

Dorothy Neil (for it was she) stood up politely as the young lady 
approached. 

‘‘ Why are you waiting here ?” asked Sylvia gently. 

“TI am waiting for Mdme. Garniture,” the girl replied with a faint 
blush. ‘‘I am one of her workers, and came to carry your veil and 
feathers.” 

“You look tired. This is not a comfortable seat. Come into my 
sittingroom and rest whilst you wait.” 

Greatly touched at such kind attention, Dora followed Sylvia into 
a pretty boudoir, and gladly accepted the luxurious arm-chair that 
she was invited to occupy. 

“Here is an amusing book to read,” said Sylvia. “ And Désirée 
must fetch you a glass of wine.” 

.“* Please do not trouble about me,” cried Dora. ‘I do not care 
for wine.” 

‘¢ But*you must have some, and a little cake. It will do you good. 
I am sorry I must go and dress. I should like so much to talk to 
you. You have a sweet face and’?—— 

“ Miss Atherstone.” 

é“ Coming, Mdme. Garniture. Good-bye. I must go.” 

Sylvia vanished into her dreesingroom, and Dora was left alone. 
For some moments she looked about her, wondering vaguely in whose 
house she could be, who the kind young lady was, and if she should 
ever see her again. She was very tired and very weak, and presently 
the book she held slipped from her fingers, her eyes closed, and she 
fell asleep. 

In a short time—very short it appeared to her—she heard the 
running to and fro of many feet, the murmur of voices, and her own 
name repeated londly in tones of evident displeasure. 

She started up and ran out upon the stairs. Here she found 
Mdme. Garniture and the French maid, Désirée. 


350 The Irish Monthly. 


“Well, upon my word, this is nice conduct in a strange house,” 
cried the dressmaker angrily. “ Where have you been hiding I'd 
like to know ?” 

“I ‘was not hiding,” replied Dora, flushing painfully. ‘I was 
sitting in the room where the young lady left me.” 

“ Oh, dear, of course,” said Désirée. “ Miss Atherstone told me 
you were in the boudoir. Did you get the wine?” 

“No. But”— — 

Dora gasped. She grew suddenly pale. . 

é“ Then you shall have it now,” cried the maid. ‘I'll go for it at 
once.” And away she went. 

‘‘Mdme. Garniture,” asked Dora with trembling lips, “ do you— 
will you tell me who is that beautiful girl you came to dress for the 
Drawingroom ?” 

“Certainly. But I. thought you knew, child. She is Miss 
Sylvia Atherstone, the greatest heiress and loveliest young lady in all 
London.” í 

Dora’s head spun round; she suddenly felt faint and giddy, and 
she clung to the bannisters for support. 

‘Sylvia Atherstone,” she murmured. ‘Are you sure?” 

Mdme. Garniture laughed scornfully. 

‘Why, I’ve made Miss Atherstone’s dresses for the last seven 
years, and very proud I am of the honour. Hers is a figure to do 
a dressmaker credit. Straight, graceful and shapely. She is a true 
aristocrat, is Miss Atherstone. A real lady to the very tips of her 
fingers. But come, dear, let us go home. You don’t seem well.” 

Dora passed her hand across her forehead. 

“Tam dazed—bewildered. I know not what may happen now. 
Sylvia Atherstone at last! So good, so beautiful, so — . 

Mdme. Garniture looked at the girl in astonishment. 

“My dear, you are half asleep. This ‘visit appears to have upset 
you. But come along. I have a cab ready this half hour.” 

And without waiting for Désirée to appear with the wine, she 
hurried Dora into a hansom and drove away. 

“Take my advice and lie down,” she said as she dropped the girl 
at the corner of the street in which she lived. ‘You want a little 
rest.” 

“Yes, thank you,” answered Dora dreamily. ‘‘ Perhaps I do.” | 

‘‘ Poor child ! ” murmured the dressmaker. ‘‘She looks somehow 
as if she had seen a ghost. What a delicate creature she is. Her 
life will not be long, I fancy. But maybe it’s just as well, for she 
has not much of a future before her.” 


(Zo be continued). 


The Children’s Ballad Rosary. 351 


THE CHILDREN’S BALLAD ROSARY. 


PART III. 


THE FIVE GLORIOUS MYSTERIES. 
I.—Tue REsSURRECTION. 


Jesus from the cross was taken, 
Hands of saints his body bore, 

In the Sepulchre they laid him, 
Place of rest for none before. 


With a mighty stone the entrance 
Was securely sealed and barred, 

While there sat in watch around it 
Soldiers of the Jewish guard ; 

Till the third day’s early dawning, 
When from heaven an angel came, 

White as drifted snow his raiment, 
Bright his face as lightning flame. 


Back he rolled the rocky barrier, 
While an earthquake spread around, 
And the sentinels in terror 
Fell aswoon upon the ground. 


Then our Lord and Saviour Jesus, 
Lamb of God, reviled and slain, 

Rose triumphant and immortal, 
King for evermore to reign. 


Who can dream the joy his presence 
To his Virgin Mother gave ! 

First he sought her, first embraced her, 
Rising glorious from the grave. 


He who loves the contrite sinner 
Showed his depth of mercy then, 
Bringing comfort in her weeping 
Unto Mary Magdalen. 
To his great apostle, Peter, 
Charge he gave his fold to keep: 
4‘Simon Peter, dost thou love me ?— 
Feed my lambs and feed my sheep. ” 


- 


302 


The Irish Monthly. 


And he breathed on his disciples 
Sacramental power from Heaven, 

With the words :—‘* Whose sins soever 
Ye forgive, they are forgiven. 


‘Go ye teaching and baptizing 
Men of every clime and coast, 

In the name of God the Father, 
Of the Son and Holy Ghost. 


‘ All the things I have commanded 
Ye shall teach them to obey. 

Lo! I am for ever with you 
Till the world shall pass away. ” 


Glory to God the Father, 
And his sternal Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 


II.—Tue Ascension. 


So for forty days did Jesus 
To his chosen friends appear, 
Speaking of his heavenly kingdom 
And his own departure near. 


In Jerusalem they rested 

'~ Till he came their steps to guide 

Forth unto the Mount of Olives, 
By his passion sanctified. 


Past the brook and past the garden 
Where his agony was wrought, 
Past the tomb, where, at Bethania, 

Lazarus to life he brought. 


On the mountain’s summit Jesus 
Raised his hands to heaven above, 
Pouring forth on his disciples 
All the blessing of his love. 


As he blessed them, they beheld him 
Slowly from the earth arise, 
While in breathless adoration 
On his form they fixed their eyes ; 





The Children’s Ballad Rosary. 300 


Till a heavenly cloud received bim, 
And concealed him from their sight. 

When behold! two angels nigh them 
Stood, arrayed in robes of white. 


“ Wherefore stand ye, gazing upward, 
© ye men of Galilee ? 

As your Jesus hath departed, 
So shall his returning be.” 


Open wide, ye gates eternal, 
Open to the King of Kings, 
‘Who ascendeth in his glory 
With the mighty spoil he brings : 


All the spirits of the faithful, 
Dear to God since time began ; 
All who loved and served him truly, 
Watching for the Son of Man ; 


All the patriarchs and prophets, 
All the hidden saints of old, 

With our pardoned primal parents, 
Ransomed from the prison hold. 


Now, amid exulting angels, 
Jesus sits upon his throne, 

By the right hand of his Father, 
Interceding for his own. 


Glory to God the Father, 
And his eternal Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 


U1.—Tue Descent or THE Hoty Guosr- 


The apostles home returning 
Sought the upper chamber there, 
And, in unison with Mary, 
Knelt in unremitting prayer. 
Pentecost has come and found them 
Thus in one accord combined, 
When a sound from heaven came o’er them 
Like a mighty rushing wind, 
Vou. xvitr, No. 206. 15 


354 


The Irish Monthly. 


Filling all the habitation, 
And behold! they saw descend 
Parted tongues of fire appearing 
Over every head to bend. 


At the moment all assembled 
With the Holy Ghost were filled, 
And began in tongues to utter 
Whatsoe’er the spirit willed. 


In Jerusalem were dwelling 
Pious Jews of every clime, 
Strangers from the farthest regions, 
Hallowing the festal time. 


The apostles came among them, 
And the marvel spread abroad 
How they spoke in every language 

Of the wondrous works of God. | 


Peter, prince of the apostles, 
Stood and raised his voice alone: 
“ Hearken to me, men of Juda, 
Let the truth I speak be known. 


ec This is what the prophet Joel 
Of the latter days foretold, 

That the Lord would pour his spirit 
On his servants young.and old.” 


Then he preached to them of Jesus, 
Whom by wicked hands they slew, 
How the might of God had raised him 

From the tomb to life anew. 


Hearing him, they asked in sorrow : 

“ Brethren, what should be our part ?” 
“« Be baptized,” was Peter’s answer, 

“ Doing penance from the heart.” 


Thrice a thousand were converted : 
So at God’s appointed hour 
Was the Church of Jesus founded 
By the Holy Spirit’s power. 
Glory to God the Father, 
And his eternal Son, 
And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 


The Children’s Ballad Rosary. 355 


IV.— 'Tng AssumrtIoyn. 


Since our Lord to heaven ascended 
Twelve full years their course had run, 
When to Mary meekly waiting 
Came the call to join her son. 


Round her couch apostles gathered 
Ere the gates of death she passed, 

Drawing strength and benediction 
From her aspect to the last. 


Then her pure and stainless body 
Did they lay in hallowed ground, 

Rapt in awe and veneration, 
Angels keeping watch around. 


But the God who preordained her 
Partner in his plan divine, 

Did not will to let corruption 
Taint his holiest earthly shrine. 


From the everlasting ages 
He had sealed her as his own ; 
Now he took her, borne by angels, 
Soul and body to his throne. 


Silence held the halls of heaven, 
Angel songs awhile were still ; 
Jn the trance of expectation 
Harps of seraphs ceased to thrill. 


Oh, the overflowing sweetness 
Of the notes that rose again, 

All the choirs of blessed spirits 
Swelling that triumphant strain. 


Come, thou Mother of the Highest, 
Come, O pearl surpassing price, 

Blessed over every creature, 
Morning star of paradise. 


See the myriad saints rejoicing 
In the beauty of thy name, 
All the fire of love within them. 

Kindling unto brighter flame. 





306 


The Irish Monthly. 


See thine own betrothéd Joseph, 
Virgin spouse of virgin bride, 

In the guardianship of Jesus 
Watchful ever by thy side ; 


Chosen for his nursing father 
In his infant years below, 

Chosen now his Church’s patron 
While the waves of time shall flow. 


Glory to God the Father, 
And his eternal Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in Onc. 


V.—Tue Crownine or our LADT- 


Then in heaven appeared the wonder 
Which with light majestic shone 
In the consecrated vision 
Of the loved apostle John. 


When the mystic seals were opened, 
And the reign of Christ begun, 
He beheld a woman clothéd 
In the splendour of the sun, 


While the moon in crescent brightness 
Underneath her feet was spread, 

And a crown of stars was resting, 
Twelve their number, on her head. 


Now was Gabriel's benediction 
In its great fulfilment seen, 
When her Son, in all his Godhead, 
Rose in heaven and crowned her Queen. 


Queen of all the glorious Angels, 
Whose fidelity was tried 

In the hour when Satan, faithless, 
Fell like lightning in his pride. 

Queen of Patriarchs and Prophets, 
Whose illuminated eyes 

From the virgin womb of Mary 
Saw the world’s redemption rise. 





The Children’s Ballad Rosary. 357 


‘-Queen of Christ’s elect Apostles, 

Whom he sent to preach and found e 
Over all the world his kingdom, 

To the earth’s extremest bound. 


Queen of Martyrs, slain in torment, 
Who have dyed their garments white 
In the blood of Jesus, serving 
In his temple day and night. 


‘Queen of Virgins, who have followed 
In the path their pattern trod, 
Dedicating soul and body 
To the purity of God. 


Queen of all the Saints unnumbered 
In the Book of Life enrolled, 

All the sinless, all whose penance - 
Brought them back within the fold. 


Queen from every stain of Adam 
In her earliest being free, 
Queen to whom her children offer 
This most holy Rosary. 


Glory to God the Father, 
And his eternal Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 


308 The Lvish Monthly. 


THE TWO CIVILISATIONS. 
PART II. 


Mr. George rose slowly, and in a grave, methodical manner, he 
sald — 

é You have raised the question of questions—the one -supreme 
problem that is stirring and agitating the world to its deepest 
depths. Forward is the ory ; but ‘the farther we go the deeper 
we sink into the sad complexity of a civilisation where wealth and 
want in sad companionship are seen side by side, where the few are 
glutted and the many are starving, and the gifts of the Creator, 
and the improvements of man, alike seem only to increase the- 
misery of the multitude. Ido not find fault with science; but I 
say that so long as society needs readjustment, as it does, so long 
as our social laws and systems are completely out of harmony with 
the eternal laws of justice and truth, science and all the other 
ministers to man will be angels of destruction, and not messengers. 
of mercy. In the very centres of our civilisation to-day are want 
and suffering enough to make sick at heart whoever does not close 
his eyes or steel his nerves. We dare not put the blame on 
Mother Nature, or upon our great Father, God. Supposing that 
at our prayers, Nature assumed a mightier power than it possesses,. 
” supposing that at the behest by which the universe sprang into 
being there should glow in the sun a greater heat, new virtue fill 
the air, fresh vigour the soil; that for every blade of grass that 
now grows two should spring up, and the seed that now increases- 
fiftyfold should increase a hundredfold. Would poverty be abated 
and want relieved? Manifestly no! The result would be in our 
present environments that the luxury of a few would be increased,. 
the misery of the many would be deepened. This is no bare. 
supposition. The conclusion comes from facts with which we are: 
quite familiar. Within our own times, under our very eyes, that 
power which is above all, and in all, and through all; that power 
of which the whole world is but the manifestation ; that power 
which maketh all things, and without which is made nothing that 
is made, has increased the bounty which men may enjoy as truly 
as though the fertility of Nature had been increased. So my friend 
here, Mr. Verdun, has declared. Into the mind of one came the 





The Two Ciwwilisations. 309 
thought. which harnessed steam for the service of mankind. To 
the wiser ear of another was whispered the secret that compels the 
lightning to bear a message round the globe. In every direction 
have the laws of matter been revealed; in every part of industry 
have arisen arms of iron and fingers of steel, whose effect in the 
production of wealth has been precisely the same as an increase in 
the fertility of Nature. What isthe result? The few are more 
powerful, the many more helpless; under the shadow of the marble 
mansion is the vile kraal of the workingman ; and silks and furs 
are ruffled by contact with rags in the streets.*’ Ay! even your 
philosophers have told us that all this is as it should be—that suc- 
cess in life is the test of virtue, and that the weak must go to the 
wall. Yes! your society is like the Hindoo idol-car, that flings to 
the earth and crushes those who have not power to keep pace with 
it. In the amphitheatres of the Roman people, when the gladiator 
was mortally wounded, the people passed sentence upon him, and 
commanded that he should die. Inthe world of to-day the same 
cruelty prevails. The moment a man sinks under the burden of 
this world’s cares, little pity has the world for him. And now, 
gentlemen,” he concluded, “ perhaps as you have allowed me to 
so speak so far, you would just hear another who has said exactly 
the same thing but in verse :— 


“ IO VIOTIS. 


“ I sing the hymn of the conquered who fell in the battle of life— 
The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife : 
Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim 
Of the nations wus lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame— 
But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart 
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part. 
Whose youth bore no flower of its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away; 
From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying 
of day 
With the work of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, 
With Death swooping down o’er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown. 


“ While the voice of the world shouts its chorus, its power for those who have won, 
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun 
Gay banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet 
Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat 
In the shadows ’mongst those who are fallen, and wounded and dying—and there 
Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knitted brow, breathe a prayer. 


* Henry George: ‘‘ Progress and Poverty.’’ 


360 | The Irish Monthly. 


Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper: They only life's victory win 

Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that tempts us 
within ; 

Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high, 

Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight—if need be, to die. 


“ Say history, who are life’s victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say 
Are they those whom the world called the victors, who won the success of the day ? 
The martyr or hero? The Spartans, who fell at Thermopyle’s tryst, 
Or the Persians of Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ P * 


“Would to heaven, that once and for ever this great gospel of 
humanity were accepted! ‘If it were so, the possibilities of the 
future were unlimited! With want destroyed, with greed changed 
to noble passion, with the fraternity that is born of equality taking 
the place of the jealousy and fear that now array men against each 
other; with mental power loosed by conditions that give to the 
humblest comfort and leisure, and who shall measure the heights 
to which our civilisation may soar? Words fail the thought! It 
is the golden age which poets have sung, and high-raised seers 
have told in metaphor! It is the golden vision that has always 
haunted men with gleams of fitful splendour! It is what he saw 
whose eyes at Patmos were closed in a trance! It is the culmina- 
tion of Christianity—the city of God upon earth, with its walls of 
jasper and its gates of pearl! It is the reign of the Prince of 
Peace.’ iúil 

é Fine talk! fine talk!” said a young man whom I.had not 
hitherto seen. He seemed scarcely more than a boy; yet there 
was a vehemence and earnestness about him which commanded 
respect. And the man that is in earnest about anything is always 
sure of a respectful hearing. “Fine talk!” said he again, “if 
to-morrow were the millenium! You preach a doctrine of 
science,” said he, turning to Mr. Verdun, “but in the same breath 
you degrade humanity, and belie the sanctity of man’s origin and 
the grandeur of his future destiny. And you,” said he, turning to 
Mr. Ruskin, “advocate culture and refinement as a salve for all 
our wounds, forgetting that the higher your cultured men and 
women advance, the nearer they are to barbarism as loathsome as 


Rousseau suggested. And you, Mr. George, preach a Gospel of 
Humanity. That is the best teaching yet. But so far as I can 


* “ Blackwood’s Magazine.”’ 
t ** Progress aud Poverty’: Henry George. 





The Two Cirilisatrons. 361 


see, Humanity left to itself is perpetually disgracing itself. From 
every side what do we hear but charges and countercharges of 
cruelty and brutality flung from the poor against the rich, and 
from the rich back again against the poor? Take the opinion of 
the one man who has voiced the sentiments of the century more 
clearly than any other, and what does he say :— 


‘ Science sita under her olive, and slurs at the days gone by ! 
When the poor are hovelled and hustled together each sex like swine, 
When only the ledger lives, and when only not aii men lie, 
Peace in her vineyard, yes! but a company forges the wine. 
And the vitriol madness flushes up to the ruffian’s head, 
Till the filthy bylane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, 
And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, 
And the spirit of murder reeks in the very veins of life. 
And sleep must lie down armed, for the villainous centrebits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps as he sits 
' To pestle a poisoned poison behind the crimson lights,’ ” * 


“He wrote that fifty years ago when he was a young man.” 
‘said Mr. Verdun. ‘“ We have progressed since then.” 

“Did he P” said the young man with a sneer; “did he? But 
‘what did he write yesterday, in his old age? Listen :— 


‘ Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set us meek ones in their place, 
Pillory wisdom in your markets, and pelt your offal in her face. 
Tumble Nature heel over head, and yelling with the yelling strect 
Set the feet above the brain, and swear the brain is in the feet. 

Feed the budding rove of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer, 
Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pare, 
Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism— 
Forward, forward, ay, and backward, downward too into the abymn. 
Do your bert to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men. 
Have we risen fiom out the beast? then back into the beast again.’ 


‘There is your Literature! Now here’s your Progress! 


s There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet, 
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street. 
There the master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread, 
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead. 
Nay, your pardon, cry your “ Forward ! ” yours are hope and youth, but I— 
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry. 
Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night, 
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light.’ ¢ 


* “ Maud.” Tennyson. 
* “ Locksley Hall: Forty years a ter.” Tennyson. 


462 The Irixh Monthly. 


“So would I! But the light won’t come! And neither science 
‘nor culture, nor humanity will bring it! For my part, I have. 
thought the whole thing over, and 1 agree with old Thomas 
Carlyle, when he declared, looking up at the splendours of heaven 
and down on the gloom of earth, ‘ Hh! it’s a sad sight!’ I agree 
with George Eliot in that famous remark she made to her bosom 
friend in her old age: ‘ There is but one remedy, my child, for the- 
sad race of men—one grand simultaneous act of suicide!’ ” 


This was rather too much, I thought; so I went on deck. It. 
was a glorious night. Far, far down the horizon, great masses of 
cloud, their blackness softened into purple by the lingering light, 
overtopped each other, and built up their airy battlements high 
into the zenith. Everywhere beside the sky was a pale liquid 
azure, through which the dim stars shone, and peace, Nature’s 
sublime peace, slept over all. I strolled up and down the deck, 
alone with my thoughts, and these thoughts were of the strange 
discussion I had heard. . Who was right?—or who was even 
nearest the truth—apostles of humanity, of science, and of culture ? 
Had they found the great central secret of the Universe, or were 
they, after all, but blind leaders of the blind—men puffed up with 
knowledge and pride, to whom the great Revelation should never 
come? I confess my sympathies were altogether with the prophet 
of humanity. Yet I knew, and knew well, that all the wealth of 
sterling probity and enthusiasm could never reduce his theories to 
practice—it would be all in vain :— 

“The still, sad music of humanity, 
Like moanings of a midnight zea,’ 
would still be heard, and still would the words of the poet 


continue — 
‘¢‘ For morning never wore to eve, 
But some poor human heart did break.”’ 


And yet how could the Almighty Creator have framed this- 
marvellous universe, with all its splendours, for a race of splenetic 
and unhappy men? MuLook around! what a miracle of splendour! 
The great moon is lifting itself above the waste of waters, and 
flinging a rippling splendour over the waves. She is scarred and 
clothed with fleecy clouds, which she drops one by one, until now 
she looks forth the acknowledged empress of the night, and the 
stars grow pale and draw in their lights when they behold her. 


The Tico Civilisations. 363 


The silence which Nature loves is upon all things—that silence- 
which Nature never breaks but in music—the music of the birds. 
and streams,'and the solemn Gregorian of the ocean! I can hear 
the splash of the water at the stern, and the throbbing of the- 
powerful engines, that with every sweep of the propeller drives 
the giant ship through the waters. I can hear the tinkling of a 
piano in the saloon, and a lady’s voice, and the first notes of “ La 
ci darem si mano.” My friends have turned from philosophy to- 
music. So much the better. But here, too, is another sound, 
which I certainly have heard before, but I cannot locate it. It 
seems to be creeping along the side .of the vessel, and even to be- 
rising from the water. It pauses and swells in rhythmical rotation,. 
like the sweep of a storm in a pine forest, or the mournful cadences. 
of the sea, as it thunders in cataracts on the beach. And there is. 
a something about it which reminds you of a Greek chorus. The- 
tiny monotone of one voice, and the hoarse murmur of many. It 
comes not from the saloon or deck of the steamer; not from the 
wind, there is none ; not from the waves—the shores are fifty miles. 
distant. Let us look forward. Yes, here it is coming unmistake- 
ably from the dark depths of the steerage. We descend. What 
a sight! All along the sides of the vessel, pale and angular Nor- 
wegian faces, lean and hungry Italian faces, calm and heavy 
Teutonic faces, are looking—at what? A spectacle for angels and 
men, and even for philosophers! An aged Irish peasant, clad in 
rough, homespun frieze, and without any ornament save the glory 
of white hair that streams upon his shoulders, is surrounded by a 
group of Irish men, women, and children. Their heads are 
reverently bent, and the deep bass voice of the men and the light 
tenors of the women and children blend in touching harmony. 
And what are they chauntingP Not the “La ci darem” of an 
Italian maestro of yesterday, but a certain canticle that was com- 
posed by an archangel some nineteen centuries ago, and his 
audience was 8 woman, but blessed above all and among all. And 
the chorus is another canticle, composed by a chorus of 100,000: 
voices fourteen centuries ago, and on the streets of an Asiatic city, 
when the gates of the Cathedral were thrown open, and mitred 
prelates came forth, and the people anticipated the decision of their 
pastors, and proclaimed the woman of Nazareth to be the mother: 
of the living God. And these two canticles go on and are 
repeated in the musical murmur of human voices, until they con- 


364 The Irish Monthly. 


clude with the great hymn of praise to the Father, the Son and 
the Spirit, who are and have been and shall for ever be! The 
eanticle of the Rosary is familiar to these poor exiles. They 
learned it at their mother’s knees—they sang it in the lonely white- 
washed chapel on the Irish hills—they will carry it in their hearts 
‘and on their lips, and like the children of Israel by the waters of 
Babylon, they will sing that song of Sion in a strange land ! 

Once more upon deck—this time with some new sensations. 
Here I find myself right in the midst of two civilisations. 

The civilisation of the saloon, though in concrete form it dates 
but from yesterday, is but a series of broken lights, caught from 
the suspended or rejected philosophies of the past. The mysticism 
of Plato, the doubtings of Epicurus, the blank materialism of 
Lucretius, have been revived in our time, and find issue in 
speculative and intellectual Atheism, and in such barren and hope- 
less solutions of the great problem of human happiness as those to 
which we have just listened. Science, groping with a thousand 
arms in every direction, finds itself even in the material world con- 
fronted by a wall of blackness, impenetrable, insurmountable ; 
and somehow the wayward movements of humanity, which it 
hoped to bring under cosmical discipline, break away from its 
arbitrary laws, and rush into chaos and disorder. With every 
appliance that wealth can afford, with all the facilities that private 
patronage and governmental support can give, with all the 
enthusiasm with which the public follow each fresh advance, and 
hail each fresh revelation, modern pagan civilisation is inconsistent 
and illogical in its teachings, false in its professions, and a dismal 
failure in its attempts to meet the moral and intellectual needs of 
then. A teacher without knowledge, a prophet without inspira- 
tion, a magician who has lost his charm, its judgment is the 
reverse of that which fell on the Jewish prophet, for it curses where 
it seeks to bless. 

Far different is the civilisation which is represented by the 
humble occupants of the steerage, far different: the philosophy 
on which it unconsciously resta, far different the gigantic 
effects which it produces and will never cease to produce. 
These poor exiles do not know that the philosophy which they 
profess is the steady light of reason that burned in the mind of 
Aristotle centuries before Christ, and was afterwards incorporated 
into the scholastic teaching of the Church. They do not know 


‘The Tiro Civilisation». 365° 


that their faith is buttressed by weighty arguments which all the 
ingenuity of satanic intelligence has not shaken, though put forth 
án language so eloquent that the soul refuses to forget its music, 
even when the reason has recognised its falsehood. They do not 
know that Augustine and Aquinas, that Jerome and Bernard, ex- 
hausted all the riches of their matchless intellects to illuminate and 
adorn the faith which they, in all simplicity, profess ; and that in 
the full white light of the nineteenth century such colossal geniuses 
as Newman and Manning, having passed through every phase of 
speculative belief or unbelief, have become at last, in the full vigour 
and maturity of mental power, little children, professing the same. 
doctrines, the exiles hold, and finding their strength in the same. 
prayers the exiles are just repeating. They only know that the- 
history of their faith is this. A morning of sunshine, when, like. 
the haze over a summer sea, the sunshine of faith lay warmly over- 
the land ; and then a long night of darkness and gloom, streaked 
with fire, into which their historians plunging, have only heard, as- 
Richter in his dream, the rain falling pitilessly in the abysses, and 
the cry of a despairing people, “ Father in Heaven, where art 
thou ?” From the gloom and the storm and the shadow, from 
the wreck and ruin of seven centuries, they have saved the memory 
and tradition of the loftiest ideas that can guide the principles and 
sway the emotions of men. And now at last emancipated, about 
to tread on free soil, to breath the free air, under the pulsing of a 
free flag, they will be given an opportunity of testing and showing,. 
side by side with the barrenness of Pagan civilisation, the fruitful- 
ness of the Christian ideal. For “ Forward ” too is the motto of 
these exiles ; and their eyes, wet with the despair of the past, are 
straining after the hope of the future. Let us follow them. Ina 
few days, masters and servants, the wise ones and the foolish, will 
be hustled together for a moment on the quays of New York, and 
then will separate. The masters will go into their drawing rooms. 
and counting houses, the servants into the kitchens and workshops. 
The masters will hang their splendid rooms with Oriental 
tapestries, and wonderful pictures of actresses and opera singers, 
of horses and dogs, will gleam from the gilded walls. The 
servants will hang on the whitewash of their attics some penny 
prints, but they will be pictures of angels and saints. The 
masters will write and lecture on humanity and philanthropy— 
the servants know nothing of these things, but they will build 


366 The Irish Monthly. 


with their hard earnings convents, colleges, asylums, and 
magnificent ‘hospitals, where the highest medical skill will 
minister to suffering humanity, where holy nuns will lay their 
‘soft hands on the throbbing brows of the sick, and priests will 
whisper to dying ears the only message that can bring solace to 
the stricken. The masters will build superb palaces for themselves, 
glistening in white marble; and with a kind of unconscious irony, 
the servants will erect side by side with these palaces mighty tem- 
ples which look down with disdain on these abodes of mortals, and 
whose glittering spires, like fingers of fire, teach to these proud 
masters the lesson of the kitchen and the attic, that “ forward ”’ 
means “ upward,” or else a rushing towards eternal destruction. 
And some day, when the sun is shining very brightly, the masters 
will come down from their high places and they will stand on the 
mosaic pavement of these temples, and they will stare and wonder 
at their marvellous beauty—the carving and the fluting and foliat- 
ing of the pillars, the white glimmering statues of saints; the 
poems that are wrought in the stained glass of lancelights and rose 
windows. But they will never know that all this architectural 
loveliness was wrought by the prayers and faith of the rough- 
handed labourers on the quays and railways, and the modest Irish 
girls who minister to their own lordly wants at home. Unnoticed 
‘and unrecognised, they carry on the great process of civilisation 
save when some great seer, like Emerson, points to their work, and 
tells his countrymen that even the material prosperity of their 
great Republic has been built by the hands of the Irish race. And 
not only in America, but in Australia and New Zealand, in “ the 
summer isles of Eden” that slumber on the broad bosom of the 
Pacific, in every region that is hallowed by the light of the South- 
-ern Cross, the same miracle is wrought by the same consecrated 
race. ‘To them has been whispered the great medisval secret that 
built Cologne Cathedral and Westminster Abbey, the secret that 
has placed St. Patrick’s Cathedral a shining symbol in the heart 
of the most worldly of modern cities—the secret that made the 
Irish miners of Australia take the Cathedral of Sydney three times 
from the teeth of the flames, and three times flung it higher and 
higher into the blue vault of Heaven. And the spiritual influence 
of the race is quite equal to the material. Wherever they go, they 
shed around the light of faith that is almost vision, of punty un- 
assailable, of strong enthusiasm for what is just and right, or fierce 








The Two Civilisations. 367 


hatred for what is cruel and wrong, and a passionate love for that 
hallowed isle in the Northern seas, where they believe that every 
blade of grass that grows springs from the relics of a hero or a 
saint. And who can doubt that if truth is great and must prevail, 
if all these wonders are manifestations of a supernatural mission. 
and a supernatural power—if they are evidences that the faith 
these exiles hold is the only philosophy on which civilisation can be 
built—who can doubt that the final resolution in the history of the 
world will be effected by the silent forces these exiles wield—by 
the new life they will quicken, by the contempt they will pour on 
the idols of a vanising philosophy, and by the mastery in. every 
department of religious and scientific thought they will infallibly 
win? Let the world and the leaders of modern thought say what 
they please. To my mind it is certain as if written with a finger 
of fire on the firmament of Heaven, that the only civilising agency 
in the world to-day is the Catholic Church, working chiefly through 
the apostles of the Irish race. 

Whilst I am thus thinking of them, they are sunk in profound 
slumber. They are dreaming of the purple heather ‘and the yel- 
low gorse—of the pattern and the dance—of the white-haired 
mother who stretched her hands in a long farewell from the cabin 
door. 

It is just striking twelve. I hear steps coming up the com- 
penionway from the saloon. Three men stand before me in the 
moonlight. | 

“T tell you,” said one, “ the kings of the future are the men of 
science.” , 

“ No,” said the second, “ but the men of culture, education and 
refinement.”’ 

“Nay, nay,” said Mr. G., “ but they in whose hearts are found 
some deep echoes of the great voice of humanity.” 

“Not even these,” thought I, “but the men of faith and 
prayer.” 

P. A. BHEEHas. 


368 


The Irish Monthly. 


THE PRIEST. 


BABE on the breast of his mother 
Reclines in the valley of love, 
And smiles like a beautiful lily ' 
Caressed by the rays from above. 


A child at the knee of his mother, 
Who is counting her decades of prayer, 

Discovers the cross of her chaplet, . 
And kisses the Sufferer there. 


A boy with a rosary kneeling 
Alone in the temple of God, . 
And begging the wonderful favour 
To walk where the Crucified trod. 


A student alone in his study, 
With pallid and innocent face ; 
He raises his head from the pages 
And lists to the murmur of grace. 


A cleric with mortified features, 
Studious, humble and still, 
In every motion a meaning, 
In every action a will. 


A man at the foot of an altar,— 
A Christ at the foot of the cross, 
Where every loss is a profit, 
And every gain is a loss. 


A Detfied Man on a mountain, 
His arms uplifted and spread— 

With one he is raising the living, : 
With one he is loosing the dead. 


D. B. Coutts. 


West Troy, New York. 


Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore. 369 


MICHAEL BLAKE, BISHOP OF DROMORE. 


PART x.” 


‘**Tis to be wished it had been sooner done, 
But stories somehow lengthen when begun.’’-+ Bron. 


A story belonging to an earlier part of our narrative may be 
mentioned here. I do not call it an incident, for that would imply 
that it had actually happened. The legend ran that the snow- 
white hair which made Dr. Blake’s old age more venerable had 
not waited for old age to come. Very early in his priestly course 
he was spending the evening with some friends, when a summons 
came for him to attend some dying person. His mother—so we 
think the tale was told to us—received the message, and, not 
thinking it urgent, refused to allow her son’s little social enjoy- 
ment to be interrupted. It would seem that more pressing 
messages reached him later, announcing that the sick person was 
at the last gasp; and, when he heard of the delay and the danger, 
his grief and holy indignation, as Sir Walter Scott says, “ blanched 
at once the hair.” If such things are not true, how do they start 
up? What sort of person takes the trouble of inventing them P 
Such things have certainly happened. Lord Byron mentions 
“ Ludovico Sforza and others” in his note to the opening of 
“The Prisoner of Chillon ” :— 


“ My hair is grey, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night 
As men’s have grown from sudden fears.”’ 


A newspaper cutting which we once put aside for the sake of 
its bearing on the present subject begins with the German form of 
Ludovico, referring evidently to a different person :'— 


“‘The hair of Ludwig, of Bavaria, who died in 1294, on his learning the 
innocence of his wife, whom he had caused to be put to death, became almost sud- 
denly as white as snow. The same thing happened to the Hellenist Vanvilliers, in 
consequence of a terrible dream, and also to the French comedian, Blizard, who, 


* This numbering is adopted for the purpose of including the two intercalary 
papers, “ Dr. Blake of Dromore and Father O'Neill of Rostrevor,’’ pp. 248 and 
820 of this volume. 


VoL. xnn. No. 205. 76 


370 The Irish Monthly. 


having fallen into the Rhone, remained for some time in imminent danger of his 
life, clinging to an iron ring in one of the piles of a bridge. Alike change was 
wrought in the case of Charles I., in a single night, when he attempted to escape 
from Carisbrooke Castle. Marie Antoinette, the unfortunate queen of Louis XVI., 
found her hair suddenly changed by her distresses, and gave to a faithful friend 
her portrait, inscribed ‘‘ whitened by affliction.’’ The beard and hair of the Duke 
of Brunswick whitened in twenty-four hours, upon his learning that his father had 
been mortally wounded in the battle of Auerstadt. Sometimes even one night of 
intense suffering has been sufficient to bleach a raven head. We are told of a 
soldier in India who, for some breach of his duty, was condemned to pass one night 
in the dark cell appointed for solitary confinement, and who, having thrown himeelf 
upon the ground, presently felt a large cobra-capella gliding over his body, and 
forming itself into a coil upon his chest, attracted by the warmth. Knowing that 
his only hope of safety consisted in perfect quiescence, he remained motionless 
throughout the fearful night until the prison door wus opened in the morning, 
which disturbed his fearful companion, and the cobra glided away. The poor 
soldier left the cell with a head as white as snow. Asan instance of more gradual 
effect, we may cite the American President, Polk, who entered upon his official 
duties with a head of magnificent black hair. and left them at the end of four years 
with one completely white.”’ 


Some interesting letters addressed to Dr. Blake have come into 
our hands too late to use them in the proper place. For instance, 
the Primate, Dr. Curtis, writes a long letter from Drogheda on the 
12th of October, 1825, bearing postage 3s. 4d., and the following 
bilingual superscription : Reverendo admodum D. D. Michaeli Blake, 
Archidiacono S. T. D., &c., &c., &e., nel Convento di Gesu e Marra, 
Via del Corso, Roma. Archdeacon Blake—as his title then was— 
did not guess how much interested he himself was in the following 
paragraph, in which the third of the Dromore selections was, no 
doubt, Father Peter Kenney, 8.J. “ I beg leave to refer you to 
what I had the honour of writing to you in August last, of the 
selection then in progress of three candidates to be presented by 
the clergy of the Diocese of Dromore to the Holy See for appoint- 
ing a successor to their late Bishop, Dr. Hugh O'Kelly. They 
have since presented to me, as Metropolitan, and I have confirmed 
a statement of that selection, with an humble petition to His 
Holiness proposing Drs. Kelly, M‘Ardle and Kenney, but advert- 
ing that all, and Dr. M*Ardle particularly, prayed the preference 
may be given tothe Rev. Dr. Kelly, then Dean of Maynooth, and 
since appointed Professor of Dogmatic Theology there, in the room 
of Dr. M‘Hale.” 

In the same letter the Primate says: “On the 15th September 
eight Prelates, Trustees of Maynooth, met in Dublin at Dr. 


Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore. 372 


Murray s, where we saw, admired, and praised your two last letters 
to His Grace, and your irresistible exertions in favour of your 
College, for which you are the only fit person for adopting studies, 
rules, and regulations.’’ A subsequent letter of the same Prelate 
(Drogheda, 20th May, 1827) was probably less agreeable to Dr. 
Blake, for it ran counter to one of his favourite projects with 
regard to the new Irish College at Rome. “As to what you mention 
of our sending thither, for their ulterior improvement, after finish- 
ing their ordinary studies in our Colleges here, some of our most 
talented and hopeful students, I cannot, forthe moment, hold out any 
great encouragement. The great distance and expense are generally 
excepted against as almost insuperable difficulties, and promising 
but little utility. Nay, at Maynooth the very project has appeared 
offensive and rather an insult to that College, where they think a 
greater progress might be made with less trouble and cost than by 
straggling on the continent. Indeed it happened, awkwardly 
enough, that poor Dr. Callan appeared to many to have lost in- 
stead of gaining any great information or polish by his tour, 
though made in your own company, and in fine, that coelum, non 
animum mutant, &o.” He went on to express very pointedly his 
regret that Dr. Blake proposed to return to Ireland, and he even 
said that this step would be fatal to the young College. “We 
neither have at present, nor can we expect to have for several years 
to come, any person to whom we could confide the government of 
that College. Such a person should be educated and formed by 
long and useful residence at Rome, and have more personal merit 
than is easily met with. I fear that some part of what my natural 
sincerity and candour have obliged me to mention above may be 
disagreeable to you, and I am sorry for it, as I should be very 
happy to render you any service or kind and friendly office in my 
power.” 

One of the letters of Archdeacon Blake—to give for once this 
unfamiliar title—to which Dr. Curtis referred with praise, has 
by some chance fallen into our hands, though it was evidently not 
a mere copy or rough draft, but prepared for transmission to Dr. 
Murray. Perhaps Dr. Blake, in trying to utilise the last moment 
before the departure of the mail, succeeded in just missing the 
post by a few minutes, and then, turning the mischance to good 
account, made an improved second edition of his letter. It is 
dated “Rome, October 12, 1824,” and tells how he had reached 


372 The Irish Monthly. 


the Eternal City on the 2nd of that month, about four o’clock in 
the.afternoon. Even he could not begin his official work that 
evening; but the next day he waited on Cardinal Somaglia and 
Monsignor Caprano. When invited to set down in writing the 
objects of his mission, he does pot allow himself two or three days 
for the purpose, but the next day presents the document of which 
we have before us now the copy that he made for the Irish Arch- 
bishops. This state paper informs the Eminentissimo Principe in 
Italian which is too intelligible to be very classical, that, though in 
Ireland there are seminaries enough to supply a sufficient number 
of priests, yet there is a lack of acquaintance with canon law, 
eeremonial according to the Roman rite, and other branches of 
ecclesiastical science; and that, therefore, the Archbishops and 
Bishops of Ireland would desire to see established, at the centre of 
Christianity and under the eye of the common Father of the faith- 
ful, a college in which certain chosen students, who had almost 
finished their course in the home seminaries, might spend two years 
in perfecting themselves in their theological studies, &c. This, we 
knew already, was Dr. Blake’s original idea, which he was soon 
forced to modify. As for the means of carrying out the project, 
he enumerates ‘‘trecenta lire sterlini,” that is “1,200 soudi,” 
which he brought with him; and he says his library ‘ will be 
sold’ for £500. . Probably he overrated its market value, and a 
remittance of £150 from Dr. Yore was, perhaps, the proceeds of 
the library. <A ffiend had promised £2,000; and he reckoned on 
getting back all that remained of the property of the old Irish 
College in which he himself had studied thirty years before. 

Why was not this document given when we described the 
weary lustrum that Dr. Blake spent at Rome refounding the Irish 
College? Nemo dat quod non habet. Some also of Dr. Murray’s 
letters came to our hands subsequently. The earliest of these 
seems to have been sent to Dr. Blake after he had set out on his 
Roman mission, although it is dated August 27, 1824, and 
although we have just seen that Rome was only reached on the 
2nd of October by a pilgrim who was not wont to loiter on the 
way. In this first letter and in most of the others the Irish Sisters 
of Charity seem to hold the first place in the writer’s thoughts :— 


“ I pray you to urge, with all your influence, the approbation of the Rules and 
Constitutions of the Sisters of Charity. The Monks or Brothers of the Christian 
Schools, who,recently oLtained the sanction of their Constitutions, afford a precedent 


Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore. 373 


which it will not be easy to get over. Our Sisters are surely as well entitled as 
they to that favour. But it becomes still more necessary for them on account of 
the circumstances which I mentioned the other day; namely, that they were 
embodied by apostolical authority under the rules of the Virgines Anglicanae of 
York, as far as the said rules were compatible with the duties of our Sisters. This 
might afford ground for scruples which it might seem expedient that the Holy See 
would remove. I fear I shall not have time to write by you to Monsignor Caprano ; 
but I will write to him by post, recommending you and your commission to his 
protection, and mentioning that I have directed you to renew my supplication to 
the Sacred Congregation on the subject of the Sisters of Charity, whom I am most 
«nxious to see placed on a, solid and permanent footing. May the blessing of God 
accompany you and bring you back in safety to us.’  —  e 


In his first letter from Rome, from which we have given a few 
extracts a moment ago, the last words are :—“ [ have not yet suc- 
ceeded with Monsignor Caprano for the Sisters of Charity; but I 
hope soon to have good news for them.” But there was still many 
a month, and even several years, before the accomplishment of that 
secondary object and of the principal purpose of his sojourn in 
Rome. With regard to the latter the following letter was written 
more than a year after Dr. Blake’s arrival. We need not say that 
all‘our documents are original, and have never been printed before. 


“ North Cumberland-street, Dublin, 


“sth Nov., 1825. 
“MY peak Doctor Braxe, 


“Since the receipt of your last kind letter I have been in almost constant 
expectation of hearing that you were in possession of your long-expected College. 
‘The three weeks which you mentioned have flown away, and several others after 
them, and still you languish under the pain of hope deferred. I give myself some 
credit for not having applied to the bishops to send forward subjects for the new 
establishment, as I had some anticipations that you might be doomed to suffer 
still further disappointment ; and, in that event, the situation of the young men, 
should they in the meantime arrive in Rome, might be far from being pleasant. 
I hope you will have fortitude enough not to allow your spirits to sink under these 
repeated disappointments, Though I have very little claim to the kindness of my 
correspondents, I could not help wishing that, without waiting for my answers, 
you had favoured me a little oftener with a few lines, even if you had nothing to 
tell me but the state of your own health, which must be always dear to me. 

“I aend by this post to Mesars. Barnewall and Sons, London, a bill of the 
Bank of Ireland, on Messrs. Coutts and Co., to be forwarded to you—amount 
£223 6s. 3d. British. This is not all for yourself, it is made up of the followin: 
sums :— 


From Mr. Yore to you, - - £150 0 0 Irish. 
From Dr. Curtis to you ag his agent - 513 9 
From Dr. Coppinger do. do. - 10 0 0 
From myself do. a, - 10 0 0 
From myself tu Mr. Argenti, - 6 0 0 


374 ‘The Irish Monthly. 


From the priests of Liffey street, and the 
Rev. Mr. Kinsella, of Carlow, for the re- 


building of St. Paul’s Church, - £9 0 0 
From myself for the same purpose, - 50 0 0 
Balance of your former account after 

paying your letter of credit, - 29 0 


£242 2 9 Irish. 

‘‘ The preceding sums produced the English bill which is marked on the reverse, 
and which when turned into Roman crowns you must take the trouble of applying 
in the manner just mentioned. | 

“ Were it not for the distressed state of our new chapel, which owes about £7000 
—for the recovery of which the contractors have entered a lawsuit against me and 
some of the parishioners—I have no doubt but I should be able to procure a much 
larger sum for the rebuilding of St. Paul's. But while my own chapel is in dan- 
ger of being seiged on by the creditors, applications (at least on my part) for the 
above purpose, how much soever it is calculated to engage the feelings of every 
Catholic, must be almost hopeleas. 

“ On Monday next, the feast of St. Laurence O’Toole, the patron of this Diocese, 
we are to open our new chapel (which we now call a church), although it is in a 
very unfinished state, and heavily burthened with debt. 

“You will be surprised to hear, if you have not yet heard it, that on the 29th 
ult. I married Marquess Wellealey to Mrs, Patterson, a widow lady of America, 
Roman Catholic, and sister-in-law to Mrs, Jerome Bonaparte. The ceremony was 

firat performed by the Protestant Primate. 
' “Our partial conferences, at all of which I could not assist, were not as well 
attended as I could wish. I have therefore established one general conference for all 
the secular priests of Dublin, to be held in my own presence in your large parlour ; 
and this I find to answer much better. I have run out my paper and said little, 
and have now only space to request you to write to me often, and to believe me 
most truly, . 
“ Dear Dr, Blake, , 
“Your assured friend and servant, 
“ D. Munray.”’ 


e The chapel which we now call a church,” was the present 
Pro-Cathedral in Marlborough-street. Dr. Curtis and all these 
old bishops had excellent styles of hand-writing, none bolder or 
clearer than Dr. Murray’s, from which we print a letter that started 
from North Cumberland-street (what number?) the month fol- 
lowing the preceding letter :— 


“ Dublin, 17th December, 1825. 

“ My Dear Doctor Brake, 

‘« Though it will not, I fear, be possible for me at present to give you more than 
a few lines, I am anxious not to let this post pass without putting you in possession 
of the sentiments of the Archbishops regarding your present prospects at Rome. 
As far as they have been made acquainted with your proceedings, they highly 
approve of all that you have said and done in their name and in their behalf, and 
in particular they approve of the manner in which you urged your objections 








Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore. 375 


{which are also theirs) against the placing of an Italian Reetor at the head of the 
intended Irish College. In addition to the arguments which you used, I beg to add 
that one of our objects in wishing to have a respectable Irish Clergyman at the 
head of that establishment was that we might, in him, have a confidential agent, 
through whom we could freely and safely communicate with the centre of Catholic 
anity. This object would be wholly defeated by the proposed plan. The English 
can govern their college at Rome through a National Superior ; the Scotch ean do 
the same; it is then only the Irish that are considered unfit for the enjoyment of 
sach an advantage. In short, a college with an Italian Rector was not solicited by 
us, nor did the idea of such an arrangemept once enter our minds when you an- 
nounced with expressions of gratitude, to which every heart among us was respon- 
sive, that the Holy Father had most benignly granted the prayer of our petition. 
If this unforeseen difficulty impede the accomplishment of our hopes, we have, of 
course, no right to complain ; but we have great reason to regret that an earlier 
intimation of it did not enable you to save much valuable time and much money, 
which could have been otherwise more /rofitably employed. If the conditions 
which you mention be ultimately insisted on, you have but to decline, in the most 
respectful manner possible, the gracious offer of his Holiness. I do not know 
whether, in that case, you will stand in need of a procuration from us to re-transfer 
the money which you vested in the Roman funds. If so, send me by the return of 
the post the form of one, and it will probably overtake the Archbishops in Dublin, 
as the College Trustees are to meet on the 18th January, and will not separate for 
a few days. Your last letter reached me in sixteen days, and I perceive that mine 
reached you in seventeen days. I hurry off this, that I may have a chance of re- 
ceiving your answer during the sitting of the board. It was only on the 3rd inst. 
that I answered Monsignor Caprano’s letter enclosing the Pope’s ciroular regarding 
St. Paul’s. I mentioned to him that I had transmitted to you my poor offering, 
and prayed him to entreat His Holiness’s gracious acceptance of it. I have just 
learned that poor Dr. Russell has got a bilious fever. Should it be after all neces- 
sary for you to return home, re infecta, you will not think of stirring until after 
Easter. I may have, too, some commissions for you, which I cannot mention, or 
rather which I need not mention until after your next letter. Mr. Yore is doing 
your duty with great zeal and effect. 
“ I remain, dear Doctor Blake, 
é“ Yours most faithfully, 
“ D. Murray. 


“ I hope you will be enabled to say that our Holy Father is quite recovered.”? 


This energetic letter seems to have had the desired effect, for, 
when the next letter was written, 8th January, 1827, the Irish 
College seems to have been begun on the original plan, as there is 
question already of relieving Dr. Blake, and yielding to his en- 
treaty to have a successor appointed. But the other object of Dr. 
Murray’s solicitude would seem to be still at this time very far 
from being realised. For he discussed the objections as follows — 


“ I must now beg to say a word about the difficulties which have been urged 
against the approbation of the Constitutions of the Sisters of Charity. The first is 
the incompatibility of enclosure with the nature of their institute, and the conse- 


376 | The Lrish Monthly. 


quent inexpediency of its rules being approved by the Holy See, whereby it would 
be made a Religious Order. 2ndly, the dangezs to which our Sisters of Charity are 
exposed, without any protection from the Government or civil magistrate. 3rdly, 
the Superioress of the whole Order is required to be subject to the Archbishop of 
Dublin, which might mar the spreading of the Order or give occasion to trouble- 
some remonstrances. | 

“I must say I was somewhat surprised at reading the first difficulty. I never 
thought of procuring for the Sisters of Charity the dignity of a religious order. 
Their name is the Pious Congregation of the Sisters of Charity. The approbation of 
their Constitutions by the Holy See would give them no title to the privileges of, a 
religious order, nor would it take the holy engagements into which the Sisters enter 
out of the rank of simple vows. Benedict XIV. in his Brief, Quamris justo, clearly 
draws the distinction between the approbation of the rules of a pious Institate by 
the Holy See and the approbation of the Institute itself. Proving that the Virgines 
Anglicanae did not constitute a religious order, though their rules were approved by 
Clement XI. in his Brief, Jnscrutabii. His Holiness says: ‘Ipsis denique Literis 
apposita legitur clausula salutaris, videlicet, ‘‘Caeterum non intendimus per 
praesentes ipsum Conservatorium in aliquo approbare’’: quae tunc apponi con- 
suevit cum approbantur seu confirmantur Regulae alicujus Conservatorii aut 
Monasterii mulierum sine clausurá viventium.’ His Holiness afterwards decides 
authoritatively, ‘ Virgines Anglicanas non esse veré Religiosas,’ and that their 
promises are but simple vows. Now these are precisely the Rules so approved by 
Clement XI. and confirmed by Benedict XTV., under which the first foundresses of 
our Sisters of Charity were in York trained to a religious life, and under which 
Rules they were ordered to live, as far as should be compatible with the duties of 
their Institute. Finding that, for this purpose, extensive alterations should be 
made, they thought it better, with the approbation of my illustrious predecessor, 
retaining the spirit of their former rules, to form a new body of regulations more 
analogous to their present duties. This is the body of regulations submitted to the 
Holy See by my predecessor and by me, and we solicited for it only the same ap- 
probation which had been given to the rules under which the Sisters had, as far as 
possible, previously lived. 

“The second difficulty exists only in name. The Sisters are looked on with 
veneration by all. I never heard of an insult being offered to them, and you will, 
perhaps, be surprised to learn that when they visit the poor female convicts in the 
jail of Kilmainham (as they are in the habit of doing) they are always welcomed by 
all the officers of the prison, and are treated by them on all occasions with every 
possible mark of respect. 

“To the third difficulty I say that the Chef-lien, or Mother House of the 
Inetitute, is in Dublin. That is the natural residence of the Superioress, as it 
affords the greatest facility of communication. The Institute, too, was established. 
principally for Dublin ; and, if other Prelates introduce it into their dioceses, this 
regulation could not afford any grievous ground of offence, as the Sisters are sub- 
ject in each diocese to the jurisdiction of the Ordinary. But if it be expedient to 
alter this regulation, let it be so done: I do not object to the change. 


é“ Yours affectionately in Christ, 
“D. Murray.” 


Those who are interested in this subject must for fuller details 
consult Mrs. Atkinson’s admirable biography of Mary Aikenhead, 


Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore. | 377 


Foundress of the Irish Sisters of Charity. We are only supple- 
menting it on this point by extracts from the original correspon- 
dence placed in our hands. The last reference that we notice is in 
the letter dated August 20th, 1828, in the middle of which Dr. 
Murray says: “ As for the constitutions of the Sisters of Charity,. 
I hardly venture to touch upon them, but I think you will be in 
danger of being sent back if you return without them.” Dr. 
Meagher, in a note to his sermon at the funeral of Archbishop 
Murray, states that he afterwards, in a personal interview with the 
Pope, obtained still higher privileges for the Sisters of Charity. 

Meanwhile Mary Catherine Macaulay had, with great courage 
and energy, begun the kindred yet very distinct Institute of the 
Sisters of Mercy. Of this Order, also, Dr. Blake was in a material 
and literal sense a founder, for we read in the delightful Life of 
Mrs. Macaulay, by Mother Austin Carroll of New Orleans, that 
“early in July, 1824, the first stone of the Mother House, in 
Baggot-street, Dublin, was blessed and laid by the Very Rev. Dr. 
Blake; but just as the building was commenced, he was called to 
Rome ”’—for the object that we wot of. Thirty years later we find 
him giving a little mark of his paternal affection for the young 
house of that Sisterhood which he had established in Newry. The 
firm, minute, and perfectly formed handwriting is wonderful for a 
man in his 81st year — 

“ Violet Hill, Newry, 
“July 2nd, 1856. 

“Duan Rev. Moruze, 

“I beg the acceptance by you and your venerable community of the picture of 
Our Lord’s Crucifixion, which I purchased while lately in Dublin and received here 
yesterday evening. The expression of the countenance is full of agony and charity, 
and seems to repeat to us, ‘ Not my will, O Father, but thine be done.’ 

sé You will notice the shades and lights in the picture when you are about to 
place it on the wall of the chapel. The shades should be farthest off from the 
window, in order to give proper relief to the more lightsome parts. 

“ Hoping that you and all your children in Christ are in good health, and all 


happy, 
é“ T remain, dear Rev. Mother, 


é Your faithful servant in Christ, 
‘«Micnaet Briar. 
“é The Rev. Mother Superioress of the Convent of Mercy.”” 


I passing on from this topic we may emphasise Dr. Blake’s 
share in the work by quoting a passage from Dr. Moriarty’s ser- 
mon at his Month’s Mind ; and we continue the quotation beyond 
what regards the Sisters of Mercy, though some topics are touched 


378 The Irish Monthly. 


upon which we have already referred to, and some to which we 
must return — 


“Dr. Blake aided with all his energy and his wisdom the late Mrs. M‘Auley in 

the foundation of the Order of the Sisters of Mercy—an Order which is the greatest 
glory of Ireland’s latter days—an Order which has been blessed with a wonderful 
efficiency for all good works, and with a most singular and almost miraculous 
fe:undity. Planted, like the grain of mustard-seed, in the parish of St. Andrew’s, 
some years ago, it has literally spread to the very ends of the earth, bearing to 
every clime the embodied image of that mercy which came from heaven to seek 
what was lost, to bind what was broken, and to strengthen what was weak. 
Wherever that Order dwells, let it be known that it owes its existenoe and its form 
in a great measure to the illustrious Dr. Blake. Several charitable institutions, 
such as St. Joseph's Asylum, Portland Row, the Purgatorian Societies, and others, 
owe their existence to hischarity. Charity made him a patriot in the true sense of 
the word, and he did love his country very warmly. I mentioned before his earnest 
<v-operation with O'Connell in all his struggles for the liberation of Ireland. But 
Dr. Blake was not one of those narrow-minded men who can sympathise only with 
those who think and act like themselves. He loved all who sincerely loved their 
native land, whether they were old or young. I will mention one fact illustrative 
of Dr. Blake’s charity, and illustrative of his whole character, ever practical, ever 
active, ever inventive in well-doing. When in Dublin, he perceived the little 
chimney sweepers of the city were most destitute of spiritual care. Put to their 
wretched trade in earliest childhood, they had no opportunity of getting school 
edacation. Their sooty faces and their dirty clothes prevented their attendance at 
worship or instruction on Sundays. He brought them together in a little confra- 
ternity. He provided them with clothes, that they might sanctify the Sunday by 
‘attending at Mass. He induced them by little rewards and feasts to meet for 
instruction in catechism, and it was his practice on Christmas-day to eat his own 
Christmas dinner at the same table and in company with these poor little chimney- 
sweepers. He, whose courtesy of manner and dignity of bearing would have 
graced the most brilliant society, never feasted more cheerfully than. with these 
the poorest and lowliest of his flock.’’ 


There is a phrase in this passage which seems to me to illustrate 
rather strikingly the difficulty which often puzzles us as to the 
meaning of certain things in ancient authors, which, no doubt, to 
their contemporaries appeared perfectly clear and intelligible. 
é“ He loved all who sincerely loved their native land, whether they 
were old or young.”” Many of our readers are too young to detect 
in the words I have italicised a clever allusion to the unhappy 
divisions towards the close of O’Connell’s life, which broke up the 
Irish Nationalists into Old Ireland and Young Ireland. Though 
devoted to O’Connell, Dr. Blake, like Dr. Moriarty himself, was 
able to appreciate the fine qualities of Gavan Duffy and his con- 
federates; and accordingly he appeared as a witness for the de- 
fence, not only in the State Trials of 1844, but also five years later 








Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore. 379 


in the trial of the editor of The Nation. On the first of these 
two occasions he addressed the following letter to his devoted and 
valued friend, Mr. James Murphy :— 


‘¢ Violet Hill, Newry, 
é January 28, 1844. 
é“ Daan Mz. Murray, = 

“ I received a letter this morning from Mr. M. Crean, Deputy Secretary to the 
Repeal Association, and another from Mr. Gartlan, law agent for the traversers 
in the cause now pending, requesting that I would attend in Dublin to give testi- 
mony on Wednesday next. I regret very much that I have been selected for that 

‘purpose, for I live so secluded from political society and so confined to my own 
professional dative, that my testimosy can amount to very little; and though I 
continue my usual exertions here, I am still much annoyed by a night-cough. 
The state of my hearing also makes me apprehensive of acquitting myself very im- 
perfectly when I have to answer interrogations. However, as the request has been 
sent to me, I thought it right at least to show my goodwill; and therefore I have 
written to Mr. Crean that I will be in Dublin, please God, on next Tuesday even- 
ing. I have endeavoured to make him sensible of my unfitness for rendering the 
service for which I have been selected, but that I would attend unless I should 
receive a counter notice. 

“I beg, therefore, to trouble you with two requests: first, that you will provide 
for me a lodging in Mr. Walsh’s for Tuesday and Wednesday night, and secondly, 
that you will eaquire of Mr. Crean whether my attendance be still considered ex- 
pedient. 

“ As I must engage my seat immediately for Tuesday, there will not be time 
for receiving your answer until I arrive in Dublin. 

“I remain very sincerely, 
“é Dear Mr. Murphy, 
“Your faithful servant, 
“M. Buaxs.”’ 


The eloquent Bishop of Kerry, in the passage quoted before 
this letter, merely names St. Joseph’s Asylum, Portland-row, 
Dublin; yet this institution is entitled to more than a pas- 
sing mention in any sketch of Dr. Blake. Among the many 
‘works of christian benevolence which he founded or helped to 
maintain, this was, perhaps, his work of predilection.* It is still 
maintained in full vigour among us, and it has quite recently 
been placed on a still more permanent basis by being confided to 
the care of a community of the Poor Servants of the Mother of 


* A very interesting account of St. Joseph’s and of some holy souls connected 
with it—Dr.' Blake himself, Father Henry Young, Lady Georgiana Fullerton, and 
Mins Ellen Kerr—will be found in a little book published by the Catholic Truth 
Society: “ A Shrine and a Story,” by the author of Zyborne, whom we venture to 
identify with Mother Magdalen Taylor, the Superior-General of the newest com- 
munity introduced into Dublin to take charge of St. Joseph’s Asylum. 


380 | The Irish Monthly. 


God. His chief co-operator in .founding and maintaining this 
Asylum for single females of unblemished life was Mr. James 
Murphy, who is still, after more than half a century, as earnest 
and as active in promoting the welfare of this holy institution 
as he has been without intermission every week during all the 
intervening years. In all likelihood this will be Dr. Blake’s most 
_ lasting memorial. Every sermon preached for its benefit, every 
document issued in connection with it, mentions him as the founder. 
His interest endured till his death, and no doubt beyond it. It 
was he who preached the first charity sermon for this his favourite 
institution in the Church of the ‘Jesuit Fathers, St. Francis 
Xavier's, Upper Gardiner Street, on the 5th of May, 1839’; and 
for the following six years consecutively he came to Dublin to 
plead the same cause, in the same church which has listened to the 
same appeal every year since then. The last sermon he ever 
' preached in his old diocese was delivered in the little church of 
St. Joseph, Portland Row, on the occasion of the dedication of the 
church, October 15th, 1856, thus testifying how enduring was 
his interest in this institution. Another instance of his solicitude 
for St. Joseph's: when he himself could no longer, on’ account of 
his advanced age and infirmities, journey to Dublin to preach the 
Annual Sermon, he deputed his venerated coadjutor, the Most 
Rev. Dr. Leahy, to do so on two occasions. And in his last will 
he says: “I hereby direct my executors to divide my assets into 
twelve shares, of which three shares are to be given to the benefit 
of St. Joseph’s Asylum, Portland Row, Dublin, that my soul may 
be prayed for by its inmates in offering up their prayers, particu- 
larly at Mass.” The other participators in his posthumous 
charity only reseive two shares or one. 

In previous portions of this necessarily desultory sketch we 
have alluded incidentally to the cordial friendship between Dr. 
Blake and O’Connell. The library of the University of Notre 
Dame, in Indiana, has a copy of O’Connell’s ““ Memoir of Ireland, 
Native and Saxon,”’ on the fly-leaf of which is this inscription in 
the big, brawny hand-writing of the Liberator: “ Respectfully 
and affectionately inscribed to his ever-venerated friend, the Right 
Rev. Dr. Blake, Lord Bishop of Dromore, by Daniel O’Connell, 
M.P., February 15, 1843.” At a public meeting in Dublin he 
paid this tribute :'— 

‘‘ A more pure apostle was not in the Church from the days of St. Peter to the 


Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore. 381 


present—a heart more disengaged from all that the world had of unworthiness. A 
spirit more pious never entered the presence of the Fountain of Light and Piety—a 
human being more devoted to all his duties—the fearless friend of the poor, the 
example of the wealthier classes, the dauntless corrector of the vices of the great ; 
he whom no pestilence could deter from the dying bed of the wretched parishioner— 
whom no quantity of property could bribe to the least desertion of his duty. 
That man had declared himself one of the foremost in the struggle for Repeal, and 
his adhesion gave a kind of sanctification to their cause, and, he would say, exalted 
the patriotiam that animated them in seeking to restore to Ireland her national inde- 
pendence.”’ 


In the same spirit Father Mathew had spoken of him publicly 
in 1841, as “that bishop after St. Paul’s own heart.” A little 
-later Gavan Duffy gaw the old bishop under peculiar circum- 
stances, which he thus describes in his volume, Young Ireland :'— 


“é From Downpatrick we went to Ballynahinch, and thence to Banbridge, where 
Mitchel resides. Next morning two of us went to Mass in the Parish Chapel, and 
‘witnessed a scene singularly solemn and impressive. A venerable old man, whose 
head I thought’ I would have recognised as the head of a Christian Bishop if I met 
it in an African desert, was receiving a public offender back into the Church. He 
«juestioned him asto the sincerity of his repentance, then prayed over him and 
exhorted the céngregation, in language wonderfully impressive, to be charitable to 
their erring brother, as they too might fall. ’ 


We have given sundry indications that Dr. Blake belonged, not 
to the school of saints who are easy on others and hard only on 
themselves, but to that class of saints who-are hard both on others 
and on themselves. Yet he had a kind and affectionate heart, and 
was easily propitiated by anything that looked like sincere humil- 
ity and repentance. Towards himself he was more implacable. 
He was a rigorous faster. He did not look with much favour on 
modern improvements in that department. We have seen how he 
still observed, and encouraged others to observe, abstinence on 
‘Wednesday and Saturday. During Lent he never tasted flesh- 
meat, and took but one meal of Lenten fare after noon with a cup 
of thin gruel at night. Nay, the young lads in his seminary were 
supposed, in accordance with immemorial tradition, to crave per- 
mission from him to abstain from flesh-meat during the entire 
Lent ; and this petition he always received with the ejaculation, 
“Thank God! ”’—and he was wont to point to his “ young men” 
from the pulpit at the end of Lent, as proving by their appearance 
the excellent effect of this austereregimen. All through the year, 
as his housekeeper (dead these many years) informed my informant, 


382 The Irish Monthly. 


he never made a remark about his food, whether it suited him or 
not, although his health in his last years required great care in 
this respect. Instead of calling on his attendant, he would him- 
self carry large books upstairs, whilst so feeble as to be forced to 
rest several times on the way. He once rebuked a servant sharply 
in the presence of others, for naturally his temper was quick ; but 

. he took occasion that same evening, when all the servants were 
together, to make an humble apology. 

He made his visitation of every parish in his not very exten- 
sive diocese every year, examining every child carefully in Chris- 
tian Doctrine. He distributed edition after edition of an excellent 
prayerbook which he compiled for his people’ In his own Cathe- 
dral in Newry he preached assiduously to his people, even when 
so enfeebled and crippled as to require the assistance of two per- 
sons to make his way into the pulpit. We do not pretend that 
the eagerness of all his flock to hear their old bishop, with the 
snows of eighty-five winters upon his head, was equal to his 
fidelity to his supposed duty. or instance, one poor woman, who 
was probably responsible for the Sunday dinner of her husband 
and several healthy young appetites, was overheard remarking 
on such an occasion: “ Lord bless us, the putting him in and 
getting him out will take an hour! ”—and off she started to cater 
for the healthy appetites aforesaid. The reader will notice here 
and elsewhere our readiness to admit a little shading into the pio- 
ture by way of variety, if the materials requisite for this purpose 
had been forthcoming. | 

From sundry published books, some of which we have named, 
and from the memories of certain priests and others who were once 
younger than they are, it would be possible to gather several other 
particulars about Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore. But, pro- 
bably, it is more judicious to leave off here; and, in doing so, I 
have before my mind a remark of Sir Arthur Helps that “ the art 
of leaving off judiciously is but the art of beginning something 
else which needs to be done.”’ 

Among the notes that I have passed over, one refers to letters 
published in the newspapers* by Dr. Blake in the beginning of his 


* I find these dates in the Annals of Battersby’s Irish Catholic Directory for 
1838; but a hurried visit to the library of Clonliffe College did not enable me to 
find the letters in its valuable series of The Freeman’s Journal. At that time 
bishops and prieste divided their patronage as regards such documents between 


- nN 


Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore. 383 


episcopate: about the hardships of Catholic tenants in Newry 
(Jan. 14, 1836), and about the Elections (July 28, 1837). Of a 
very different nature is the last letter we shall quote from our old 
bishop, the latest specimen of his handwriting, ‘firm and clear to 
the end, dated a few months before his death :— 


‘* Violet Hill, Newry, 


“ August 18, 1859. 
‘¢ Dear Revernenp Morner, 


“I recommend that it be understood generally that large contributions of money 
are not expected from charitable donors for the objects of your Institution. The 
widow’s mite, when offered from a truly charitable motive, is very acceptable in the 
sight of God. A crown or half-crown, or a shilling ora sixpence, when frequently 
given, is more likely to be of service on ordinary occasions and more likely to 
exercise a spirit of charity thansa larger sum, and when that spirit is often exer- 
cised, it becomes habitual, and not only easy but gratifying to its possessor. I 
know that my clergy are not able to give much almadeeds or to do great pecuniary 
charitable acts, and I may say the same of myself; but a small sum given from 
time to time would not long be missed when given for so good and so great a pur- 
pose. Iam anxious, therefore, to encourage that practice, and I wish to begin by 
example, and now send as my first contribution one pound as some little impulse 
for the success of the little plan for the poor which I have so much at heart. May 
the Father of Mercies and the God of all consolation pour in upon your establish- 
ment abundance of means for the constant exercise of that special virtue which is 
so dear to Him, is the fervent prayer, 

é“ Dear Reverend Mother, 
“ Of your faithful servant in Christ, 


““ MTCHAEL BLAEE. 
‘© To the Rev. Mother Superior of the venerable community 


of the Sisters of Mercy in Newry.”’ 


The fatherly regard which Dr. Blake thus to the last showed 
towards the Sisters of Mercy did not diminish the interest he had 
taken from the first in the pioneer convent of the Black North— 
the Poor Clares who had boldly sent out a colony from Harold’s 
Cross, Dublin, to the High Street of Newry, some thirty years 
before the first Sisters of Mercy ventured across the Boyne. The 
two communities also shared equally in the distribution of his little 
property directed in his will. 

That testament began with these words: “I bequeath my soul 
to God, firmly believing in the gracious promises of my Divine 
Redeemer, and humbly confident of His mercy. I desire that my 
body may be buried in the graveyard adjoining the old Romen 


The Freeman and The Dublin Evening Post, which makes it harder to trace references 
of this kind than it would be nowadays, when The Freeman enjoys a monopoly of 
this branch of literature. 


384 The Irish Monthly. 


Catholic Church of Newry, without any unnecessary expense, in a 
plain coffin,.and that a slab or small headstone be placed at the 
head of my grave, with a simple inscription expressive of my 
humble hope of a happy resurrection, and supplicating those who 
come after me to pray for the happy repose of my immortal soul.” 
The Bishop was buried accordingly in the graveyard of the Old 
Chapel ; but the following inscription has not obeyed his other 
directions perhaps as fully as his humility would have desired. It 
may fitly conclude the sketch, which it summarises well, adding 
the only remaining date, the day and year of Dr. Blake’s death :— 

é Here lies the body of the Right Rev. Michael Blake, D.D., 
for twenty-seven years Bishop of Dromore. Previously Vicar- 
General of Dublin, Restorer and Rector¢of the Irish College at 
Rome. The whole course of his long life wag distinguished by 
piety, charity to the poor, and zeal for the interests of religion. 
Unwearied in the fulfilment of his arduous duties, he continued to 
discharge them assiduously, even when bowed down by age and 
infirmities ; and he never ceased to preach the words of eternal life 
until he was laid in the bed of death. Born 16th July, 1775, he 
died 6th March, 1860, in the sure hope of the final resurrection. 
Pray for his repose.” 

And so of a holy life, and of a simple and straggling record of 
it, this is at last 

THE END. 


Sick Calls. 385 


PROVIDENCE. 


A CANDLE-LIGHT in window pane, 
Beneath a seaside thatch ; 

A dim sail on the sobbing main, 
Two eyes that weep and watch. 

Two lips that move in prayer ; two hearts 
Each yearning unto each,— 

One in frail boat, far, far afloat, 
One on the windy beach ! 


A wild wind from the stormy moon, 
The shriek of lashing foam ; 
A ghostly yale, like banshee’s wail 
Around a silent home. 
Where seagulls dip in snowy surze, 
A white face in the morn ; 
A winding sheet, a woman’s dirge, 
A life for aye forlorn. 
Patrick J. Coneman. 


SICK CALLS. 


pe: lived by the boundary wall of a demesne at the side of 

a bridle road. When the summer sun was shining, and you 
looked up along the acclivity towards the place, it was very calm 
and inviting; or as you passed in the rich moonlight nights, and 
saw the majesty of the grand beech trees or chestnuts, and their 
distant shadows on the lane, it looked romantic. 

They were an old couple, very old. The husband was eighty- 
four and some months, and the woman was not far behind in the 
scoring. They lived in what was once a strong dwellinghouse, 
but which was old and uncared for now; and they were old and 
worn too—one of them deaf and the other nearly blind, living on 
two shillings or 2s. 6d. a-week, outdoor relief. 


Vou. xv. No. 206. 77 


386 The Trish Monthly. 


It was in the early part of a dark rainy night I was called to 
the old woman. The kitchen was full of kippeens or faggots; the 
old man hung groping over the fire, and the invalid was in “the 
room.” <A neighbouring woman got some things ready for me. 
The bed was wretched, the walls were black and damp, and the 
rain through the roof dropped and pattered on the floor, so that a 

piece of a board was laid on the floor for me to stand on. Never 
a word of complaint from that poor woman; the only thing that 
troubled her was— Oh vo! that the poor priest had to come out 
in sich a night!” 

I “prepared ” her, gave her Holy Viaticum, anointed her, 
and when all was over, “ Father,” she said, “ I feel so happy that, 
if you like, asthore, I'll sing you a song.” 

I asked the woman in attendance to get the poor old couple 
some nourishment, and left, thanking God for giving such happi- 
ness of mind to our poor. 

After a time she recovered ; but quite recently I was called to 
the old man. He was religious and pious all his days; and when 
he was told that the priest was now come, he began to cry out in 
his earnestness—‘“ Oh, how can I ever meet God? How can I 
ever go before God?” It was not despair at all—it was an over- 
whelming sense of the purity of God; something akin to what 
drew from the Centurion the cry, memorable ever since—“ Lord, 
I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof.” He 
received the Holy Viaticum calmly and with intense devotion. 
When he was told about the effects of Extreme Unction and how it 
takes away the sins of our eyes and of each of our senses, and 
when I said to him, “I am going to do that now ”; and then as I 
anointed his eyes, “thank you,” he said—and his ears, “ thank 
you ’’—and his nostrils and lips, “thank you.” When I anointed 
his hands, he raised them hastily to his lips, and kissed them 
warmly and heartily ; and then he cried, “ Now when I meet, God, 
I can shake hands with Him.” And he kissed them again and 
again, crying out, “ Now when I meet my God, I can shake hands 
with Him.” 

R. O’K. 





Notes on New Books. 387 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. The Coadjutor Bishop of Clonfert has made a noble addition 
to our Irish historical literature in giving us this large octavo volume 
entitled ‘‘Insula Sanctorum et Doctorum, or Ireland’s Ancient Schools 
and Scholars,” (Dublin : Sealy, Bryers, and Walker). The secondary 
title recalls to one’s mind Mother Raphael Drane’s most learned work, 
“ Christian Schools and Scholars,” and we intend to give the highest 
praise to both works when we say that they are worthy of being 
named together. The researches, however, which the Irish bishop 
had to make in the performance of his task were of a much more 
original and difficult kind; he has not only pored over the old books 
and manuscripts in the libraries, but he has examined every grave- 
yard and ruin in Ireland that may have been connected with any part 
of his subject. He has the true antiquarian spirit, but, luckily, for 
setting forth his stores of learning he had at his command a much 
better medium than the lumbering style that has found favour with 
too many learned antiquaries. Dr. Healy, on the other hand, does not 
aim at the ostentatiously picturesque manner of some of our moderns, 
who set themselves to popularise history or philosophy. His style is 
clear, unaffected, and vigorous,* and it is peculiarly fitted for his 
present theme. The book opens well with a large map of “ Ancient 
Ireland, showing the ancient schools and principal territorial divisions 
before the Anglo-Norman Invasion.” Our little island is represented 
as consisting of only two parts, divided by a line running almost 
straight from Dublin to Galway. We cannot now mention in even 
the most summary way, the contents of the twenty-four chapters which 
ure analysed at the beginning more fully and satisfactorily than they 
are indexed at the end of this volume. All about druids, bards, and 
brehons—all about Irish schools and scholars before St. Patrick and 
after St. Patrick—all about St. Patrick himself, and St. Brigid, and 
St Colman of Dromore, St. Enda of Arran, St. Finnian of Clonard, 
St. Brendan of Olonfert, 8t. Finnian of Moville, St. Ciaran of Clon- 


* We venture to claim for this Magazine the distinction of having been Dr. 
Healy’s first medium of publication, In our seventh volume, for instance, we notice 
elaborate papers from his pen on Lough Derg, on Giraldus Cambrensis, and on the 
Annals of Lough Key. Will the learned prelate allow us to identify him with the 
‘* J, H.” who at page 638 of our fifth volume throws into fine rolling ballad metre 
“ Hugh Roe U’Donnell’s Address to his soldiers before the Battle of the Curlew 
Mountains”? This poem alone shows the writer’s wonderfully minute acquaint- 
ance with Irish topography. An Irish schoolboy could not desire a more spirited 
piece for declamation. 


388 The Irish Monthly. 


macnoise, St. Gerald of Mayo, St. Columba, ,8t. Fintan, St. Aengus, 
St. Laurence O’Toole, and a great many other saints, and many 
learned and holy men uncanonised : these are only a few of the sub- 
jects on which henceforth every student of the early history of Chris- 
tian Ireland will be bound to consult the author of ‘‘ Insula Sanctorum 
et Doctorum, or Ireland’s Ancient Schools and Scholars.” 

2. Why do we speak of Father Da Ponte? It is by this name 
that Father Faber quotes him. The Italian form is rather del Ponte ; 
and why should we make him an Italian? In his own Spanish the 
name is de la Puente, in Latin De Ponte, in French Dupont, and, if 
English were equally tyrannical in making foreign names conform to 
its own pattern, we should have a name common enough in England 
and call him Father Lewis Bridge. Perhaps the Latin form is the 
best compromise, just as we speak of Blessed Peter Faber, and not by 
his Savoyard name of Favre. Father De Ponte came into the world 
when the Society of Jesus was just twenty years old, and he was him- 
self twenty years old when he entered the Society. When we add 
the fundamental date—namely, that 1534 was the birth-year of the 
Company of Jesus—we fix Father De Ponte’s place with regard to St. 
Ignatius, of whose Evercitia Spirstualia he is the most celebrated 
commentator, and we see how near to the fountain-head was this 
copious stream of spirituality, which has ever since refreshed souls in- 
numerable. His immediate master in the religious life was Father 
Baltassar Alvarez, whose greatest glory is derived from St. Theresa, 
whose confessor he was for some time. He was debarred by his con- 
stant delicacy—tenus vel potius nulla valetudine—from other sacred 
ministries, and he determined to try and make some compensation 
with his pen. To how many thousands of chosen souls has he preached 
in the most effective manner during these three centuries? Father 
Lehmkuhl, 8.J.—whose own work on Moral Theology has been by 
far the greatest success of our time in its special department—has 
edited for Herder of Friburg a new edition of the Latin translation of 
Father De Ponte’s Meditations, in six handy volumes, which will help 
many a priest in the twentieth century “ not to degenerate from the 
high thoughts of the sons of God.” 

3. Two Tales that had dropped out of print have reappeared in 
second editions. One is “The Wild Birds of Killeevy,” by Rosa Mul- 
holland (London: Burns and Oates). The form in which it is repro- 
duced is just as pretty as before, while the price is much less. This 
idyllic romance is, in the judgment of many, even more full of the 
author’s characteristic charm than her more matter-of-fact novels, 
‘Marcella Grace,” and ‘‘ A Fair Emigrant ”—to name only the more 
recent volumes which are still procurable. The other reprint is Mrs. 


Notes on New Books. 3889 


Frank Pentrill’s “ Odile,” (Dublin : M. H. Gill and Son). This “ Tale 
of the Commune” is really too cheap at a florin—two hundred pages 
of such bold type in a handsome binding. Catholic households and 
Catholic libraries will do well to add it to their stores. It is whole- 
some and pleasant. The writer knows well the French scenes and 
characters she describes, and, besides having a good story to tell, she 
has a bright, pure, clever style to tell it with. 

4. We have a word, good or bad, for every book that asks a word 
from us ; and therefore, though it is somewhat abrupt and incongruous 
after welcoming a new edition of “The Wild Birds of Killeevy,” we 
announce the first volume of Dr. Jungmann’s edition of Fessler’s ‘‘ In- 
stitutiones Patrologim,” published by Pustet of Ratisbon, Cincinnati 
and New York. The well-known Professor of Ecclesiastical History 
in the Catholic University of Louvain has vastly increased the utility 
of the original work, which was already distinguished for the German 
fulness and accuracy of its erudition and for its methodical arrange- 
ment. It is a most interesting and useful guide to the study of the 
works of all the Fathers of the Church, and teems with information 
-about every point connected with Patristic literature; and it is mani- 
festly the fruit of many years of patient research not only on the part 
of the author, but also on that of his new editor, who has greatly 
added to some parts of the work and condensed others. Dr. Jung- 
mann has a high reputation not only as an historian but as a theolo- 
gian, and his latest task required both qualifications. 

5. It approaches perilously near to that self-praise which the 
proverb makes out to be no praise at all, to quote in these pages any 
kind opinions expressed about ‘‘ The Harp of Jesus,” (Dublin: M. H. 
Gill and Son). But our advertising columns have become so valuable 
that we cannot afford tu insert there any extracts from the criticisms 
of this little book. "We venture to quote a few in this place in the 
hope that they may induce some others who have charge of children 
(besides the very many who have already done so), to give the author 
@ chance of reaching afew additional thousands of these young hearts. 
The Dublin Review of April, 1890—which, by the way, cherishes 
sanguine hopes of seeing Aubrey de Vere succeed Lord ‘lennyson 
as Poet-Laureate—is good enough to mention “The Harp of Jesus” 
in two places. At page 470 it is said :—‘ This tiny volume, styled 
on the title-page ‘A Prayerbook in Verse,’ ought to have a place 
among the devotional books of every Catholic. Prayers and aspira- 
tions, beautiful in their simplicity, are given metrical form in melo- 
dious verse, facilitating their committal to memory. It is, for this 
reason, specially adapted to children, but not the less will the older 
generation find in it ideas to elevate and instruct.” Twenty pages 


390 The Irish Monthly. 


I 
further on, another reviewer describes the same little volume as “a 
pleasing book of religious verse, embracing a large number of 
transcriptions of ordinary prayers, by a well-known writer.” At 
greater length Zhe Weekly Regtster of May 24, 1890, pronounces 
this kindly judgment :— 

“ Poetry and piety have conspired with charming effect in Father Russell's latest 
und well-named little book, The Harp of Jesus. It is a prayer-book in verse, a 
little breviary, or book of hours for children, and for those grown-up persons who 
have kept their child-heart pious in the thought that God is their Father, and that 
they are His children, a relation which is the very essence of piety and the very 
meaning of the word. Following the Venerable Bede, Father Raseell thinks that 
the young may be drawn more easily to learn and to recite prayers in rhyme, and 
so $ to lisp in numbers,’ though they may not be budding poets. And the verses of 
this book will admirably attain that end; fervent as they are, and pithy, and to 
the point. There is a subtle and seemingly almost ess art in many of the 
paraphrases, The ‘ Our Father,’ the ‘ Hail , the ‘ Apostles’ Creed.’ the prose 
of these no poet shall supersede ; but we do not feel the same about ‘‘The Medita-. 
tion on the Sign of the Cross,’ or ‘The Acts of Faith, Hope, Charity and Con- 
trition.’” The book is small enough, as well as pleasant and pious enough, to be 
carried in the breast pocket—near the heart.”’ 

6. Some of our readers may occasionally have noticed that we do 
not feel bound to praise a book merely because it happens to be 
written by a well-intentioned Catholic and brought out by a Catholic 
publisher. In particular we have a sort of spite against stories with 
a controversial smack where everything is edifying and smooth in 
religious matters, but where often the story is very poor and the 
theology somewhat childish. This personal observation is meant to 
emphasise the hearty praise that we are able to bestow on a new book 
by Mrs. Parsons, ‘‘Thomas Rileton’’ (London: Burns and Oates). 
It is, indeed, frankly controversial, but the controversy is very good 
of its kind, and it is boiled down judiciously in an interesting narra- 
tive with a good many nice characters and a fair amount of incident. 
The rescue of Dedding’s daughter is not made probable enough, as. 
far as a rather precipitate reader could perceive. Are not the con- 
versions a little overcrowded? Mrs. Parsons has an excellent style of 
her own, and that is a great advantage even in a religious novel. 

7. The publisher of Father Lehmkuhl’s De Ponte—Herder of 
Freiburg, who has houses also in Munich, Strasburg, and Vienna— 
publishes at St. Louis in Missouri an admirable essay by Mr. Conde 
Pallen, “The Catholic Church and Socialism.” Of a more practical 
character are two earnest addresses to the Brothers of the Oratory of 
St. Philip Neri in London which Father Kenelm Digby Best has 
published under the title ‘‘ Why no good Catholic can be a Socsalset”’ 
(London: Burns and Oates). The Oratorian Father discusses Social- 
ism in its relations with property, and with authority, quoting many 
decrees bearing on the subject. 

8. Father Monsabré, O.P., who has filled the pulpit of Notre 


Notes on New Books. 391 


Dame in Paris for some twenty Lents, devoted one series of his con- 
ferences to Christian Matrimony. M. Hopper has translated this 
volume, and the Benzigers (New York, Chicago, and Cincinnati) have 
published it with fitting care. Yet we think many parts of the book 
are unsuited for this country, however it may be with the original 
hearers, many of them prone to be influenced by the corrupt society 
around them. 

9. We fear it is late to announce Mr. Wilfrid Robinson’s “' Pil- 
grim’s Handbook to Jerusalem” (London: Burns and Oates), illus- 
trated with several maps and plans, but printed on very thin paper : 
too late especially as even this paragraph has by accident been held 
over in type for more than a month. ' 

10. Mr. Washbourne, 18 Paternoster Row, London, has issued a 
large illustrated and illuminated card for framing, with room for the 
entry of the dates of baptism, confirmation, and first communion. By 
the way it was to a book issued by this Publisher that the puzzling 
initials, I. O. G. D., were affixed. We are informed that these letters 
stand for Jn omnibus glorificetur Deus, and we are referred to the fifty- 
seventh chapter of *‘ &t. Benedict’s Rule.” 

11. Father Henry Sebastian Bowden, of the Oratory, has prefixed 
an introduction on certainty to an authorised translation of the first 
volume of Hettinger’s great work, ‘‘ Apology for Christianity.” This 
volume is called ‘‘Natural Religion” .another will follow on 
Revealed Religion. This work is pronounced by those most competent 
to judge to be a work of the most solid merit, and Father Bowden 
has conferred a great service on the student of philosophy and theology 
to whom the German language is an insuperable barrier. The Eng- 
lish version seems to be admirably executed and is produced with 
faultless taste by Burns and Oates. 

12. Two poetical volumes, recently published, can only receive the 
most inadequate notice at present. ‘‘Wreaths of Songs from Fields of 
Philosophy ”? (Dublin: M. H. Gill and Son) is manifestly the work of 
a Professor of Moral Philosophy whose whole soul is steeped and 
saturated in reflections on the most profound and abstract truths. 
Only to a kindred spirit could such songs be intelligible. Many of the 
phrases resemble the literal translation of German compound words ; 
and there is hardly one of these philosophical lyrics that does not need 
to be interpreted by the poet himself. So interpreted, they would be 
found to be full of high and spiritual thought. Happy the souls that 
can breathe so pure and rarefied an atmosphere! On a lower level, 
nearer to our ordinary work-a-day world, is the other volume of verse, 
published by the same firm, ‘‘ Poems of the Past,” by Moi-méme. In 
our antipathy for such pen-names we reveal all we know: that this 


392 The Irish Monthly. 


signature often appeared in the defunct Messenger of St. Joseph, and in 
the Cork Examiner, and that ‘‘ Moi-méme’”’ is reported to be a nun. 
This volume of 330 pages contains about 200 poems, the very names 
of which show the poetical spirit of the author, and also her religious. 
spirit. ‘‘A Child’s Heart” is as sweet as any of them, or “ Jesus auicm 
tacebat,” or the “Legend of the Robin,” or ‘‘ Wait.” But this last, 
though it comes second in the volume, shows what most of the pieces 
show, that this Muse is too much of an Improvisatrice and has not had. 
the advantage of any very stern consorship from her own literary 
conscience or from any external monitor. After the first two stanzas 
have determined the metre and accustomed the ear to find the odd 
lines unrhymed, suddenly this covenant is broken through in the third 
stanza without any warning or any reason. Though ‘: Moi-méme” 
has a musical ear, she has let many an. unrhythmical line pass 
unchided, and this not merely by constantly treating torn, warm, and 
similar words as dissyllables. ‘‘The Opening Leaflet,” which comes 
first of all and might be supposed to be specially on its good 
behaviour, has at least four lawless lines that refuse utterly tu be 
“scanned.” This Irish nun has plenty of ideas and plenty of words 
to match; but her book would have been holier and better for more 
study, more compression, more concentration, more self-criticism of 
sound and sense and tenses and everything, and a more resolute 
striving after that perfection of form of which an English uun has 
furnished a remarkable example in “ Songs in the Night.” 
18. It is proper to ‘‘accuse the reception” of some periodicals 
that take the trouble of coming to us from afar. Zhe Amertcan 
Catholic Quarterly, which fully maintains its high standard of merit, 
is henceforth to be edited by the Archbishop of Philadelphia, Dr. P. 
J. Ryan, assisted by two of his priests and Mr. George Dering Wolf, 
who will probably be for it what Mr. Cashel Hoey once was for 7Áe 
Dublin Review. Tie Catholic World has begun a full and elaborate 
“life of Father Hecker,’ its founder and first editor. Zhe Fordham 
Monthly is kept up with great spirit, and must be of enthralling 
interest for its own immediate world, seeing that it is not without a 
charm even for fogeys and outsiders across some thousand leagues of 
foam and sea-sickness. Le Couteulx Leader is a bright little paper, 
presided over by a clever pen and a judicious pair of scissors. The 
American Messenger of the Sacred Heart, published at Philadelphia, has 
been made, under the editorship of Father Raphael Dewey, S.J., quite 
a large religious magazine of high literary merit. In May, 1890, the 
Ave Marta celebrated its silver jubilee. It was founded in May, 1865, 
by the Very Rev. Edward Sorin, now Superior-General of the Con- 
gregation of the Holy Cross. Its second editor was Father Gillespie 
till 1874, and then, after the brief reign of Father Colovin (also dead), 
it came under the gentle but potent sway of Father Daniel Hudson, 
feliciter regnans, We have heard that its printers (and it is printed 
well) belong to the same sex as the new Senior Wrangler at Cam- 
bridge, Philippa Fawcett. | 
14. We must end this month with the joyful announcement that 
Sir Charles Gavan Duffy’s “Life of Thomas Davis” (London : Kegan, 
Paul, Trench and Co.) has at last appeared. We can only mention it 
now, the first of many times that it is sure to come before our readers. 








AUGUST, 1890. 


x———-I——— 


A STRIKING CONTRAST. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF “THH MISER OF EINGSCOUBRT, ” “THE ATRANGH ADVMNTURKHS 
OF LITTLE BNOWDROP, FTC. 





CHAPTER XV. 
LADY ASHFIELD MAKES UP HER MIND. 


Y all who saw her on the day of the Drawingroom Sylvia 

Atherstone was much admired, and universally allowed to be 

the handeomest and most distinguished looking of all the fair débutanées. 

She was, declared these judges of female beauty, the loveliest girl 

they had ever seen, and worthy in every respect of tho good old name 
she bore. 

But of all this admiration Sylvia was calmly unconscious. She 
was pleased when the ordeal of making her curtsey to the Queen was 
over, and rejoiced to think that she had passed through it without 
betraying any undue nervousness or agitation. But more than this 
she did not care. For, as Sir Eustace had said, she was not vain, nor 
likely to become so. Her mind was of too high an order to admit of 
such a petty vice as mere personal vanity. So she troubled herself 
but little as to what anyone might say about her looks or bearing on 
the day of her presentation. 

But if Sylvia were indifferent as to the judgment pronounced upon 
her by society, on her first appearance at Court, Lady Ashfield was 
keenly anxious upon the subject. For some time she had been 
tortured with doubts as to the truth of Madge Neil’s story. The 
horrible idea that Sylvia might after all be the daughter of poor, 
insignificant people had kept her awake at night and unhappy by day. 
The dream of her life had been to see this beautiful heiress married 
to her only son, Charles Lord Ashfield. But as the dreadful possi- 

Vor. xvi. No. 206. 78 


394 The Irish Monthly. 


bility that she might not be, after all, what she seemed rose up before 
her, she resolved to be cautious—not to push on the marriage till this 
story had been carefully looked into and settled one way or another 
for ever. Sylvia Atherstone, with her large fortune and blue blood, 
would be a wife fit in every respect for Lord Ashfield; but the same 
girl, good and beautiful though she might be, without money or 
family, should never wed with son of hers. 

Lord Ashfield was full of what his mother was s pleased to call 
‘‘ Radical ideas.” He professed a decided contempt for persons whose 
only boast was their pedigree and ancient family. He admired 
genius, courting the society of those who had risen by their own 
talents and industry rather than that of gentlemen who counted kings 
and crusaders amongst their ancestors. This strange taste, thought 
Lady Ashfield, was the sign of some terrible warp in his nature, and 
would surely lead him into mischief—perhaps be the cause of his 
marrying someone much beneath him in station. But against this 
she was determined to guard. And until Madge appeared upon the 
-scene, she had considered Sylvia the one only girl whom she would be 
pleased to welcome as her daughter-in-law. And even after she had 
listened to the story of the wreck and heard of the declared substitu- 
tion of one child for another, she was still true to Sylvia. She refused 
to believe Madge’s statement, resolved to treat it as a bare-faced 
invention, and showed Lord Ashfield as plainly as she dared that she 
wished him to marry Sylvia Atherstone, granddaughter of her best 
and oldest friend. 

But then an awful fear took possession of her. What if this tale 
were found to be true? And she trembled lest she should have 
already gone too far, have urged this marriage too earnestly upon her 
aon. Then came the recollection of the approaching Drawingroom. 
If she presented Sylvia, she was in a manner responsible for her. 
Hitherto she had not felt uneasy. But now! What if this girl, whose 
beauty and elegance she had lauded to her friends, should prove to be 
nobody? What if she were found less lovely, less aristocratic look- 
ing than she had imagined her to be, wanting in the many points that 
show birth and family? What if this should be the verdict pro- 
nounced upon Sylvia on her first appearance in the world? How she 
would be laughed at for her ignorance and simplicity. 

So as the day of the presentation drew near her soul was torn with 
anxiety. 

At last the ominous hour arrived, and Lady Ashfield swept through 
the stately rooms of Buckingham Palace, with Sylvia by her side. 

Suddenly, her doubts melted away. She became completely re- 
assured. All around she saw looks of admiration and approval, and 


A Striking Contrast. 395 


she gazed at her companion, full of a growing and fixed belief that 
she was certainly Sir Eustace Atherstone’s granddaughter. It was 
not possible to think otherwise. The tall, slim figure; the graceful, 
dignified carriage; the well-shaped head; the dazzlingly beautiful, 
yet high-bred face; the perfectly easy, unconscious manner of the 
young girl could only belong to one of good—of noble birth. So, 
there and then, Lady Ashfield’s mind was definitely made up. This 
wild story that had filled her with terror was utterly false, and was, 
doubtless, concocted for the purpose of extracting money from her. 
She would see Madge again soon, and buy a promise of silence from 
her, even though it should cost her several hundreds. Thus all fear 
of trouble on that score would be speedily disposed of, and Sylvia 
should marry Lord Ashfield before the end of the season. 

‘Your granddaughter has had a great triumph, Sir Eustace,”’ 
said Lady Ashfield sweetly, as she watched the girl move gracefully 
about amongst the many friends who had come to see her on her 
return from the Drawingroom. ‘‘She was universally admired, I 
assure you. And really I do not wonder. I consider her quite 
perfect.” 

Sir Eustace smiled, and his eyes rested lovingly on his darling’s 
face. 

Indeed,” he said, “ and was it necessary she should put on a 
train several yards long before you could find that out? I always 
knew she was perfect.” 

‘You have had advantages I did not enjoy. ' But, even so, had I 
been in your place, I would have mistrusted my own judgment a 
little. One never knows what the opinion of society may be, and that 
is the important point, Sir Eustace.” 

“ Not a bit of it. I don’t care one jot what society says or thinks, 
so long as I know that my Sylvia’s heart is in the right place. And 
I have only to look in her bonnie eyes to know that.” 

“True. But society will not trouble much about that. Hearts go 
for very little, I assure you. However, Sylvia is a success, and I 
congratulate you. And now 1 must run away. I have two other teas 
to go to on my way home.” 

‘It was most kind of you to come to us,” said Sir Eustace as he 
gave her his arm down-stairs, “you are very good to my child, and 
I thank you a thousand times.” 

“My dear friend, I requireno thanks. Remember, I look upon 
Sylvia as my daughter. You know I hope to call her so one day.” 

“ Yes,” he answered gravely, “and I feel deeply complimented 
that you should. But pray do not forget that ‘l”homme propose, et 
Dieu dispose.’ My Sylvia shall do as she pleases. I sent away Paul 


396 The Irish Monthly. 


Vyner by your advice, but I will not urge her to marry Lord Ash- 
field.”’ | 

“ Of course not—I never thought of such a thing. Still I like 
you to know what I feel about the dear child.” 

é“ You are very kind. A true friend to us both. And Ashfield is 
an extremely fine young fellow. But I am selfish in my love. I want 
to keep my darling to myself.” 

Lady Ashfield luughed. 

é“ That you shall not be allowed to do lony, I promise you. But 
good-night. We meet this evening at the Treherne’s, I suppose? ’” 

“ Yes, Sylvia and I are dining there.” 

“Then au revoir, Sir Eustace, au revoir.” 

And stepping into her carriage, Lady Ashfield drove away. 

‘‘Poor old man! How wrapt up in that girl he is,” she cried, as 
she went along. “This story of Madge Neil’s would kill him, I 
believe. But he shall never hear it, if I can prevent it. It is only the 
raving of a mad-woman, but still it would give intense pain and 
worry. But I’ll soon put an end to it, and Ashfield shall marry 
Sylvia, I am determined he shall.” 

But for some days Lady Ashfield was busy, she had many people 
to visit, many places to go to. And though anxious to see Madge and 
silence her for ever, she dreaded the interview, and postponed it from 
hour to hour. ‘Thus the time passed, and, notwithstanding good 
resolutions she had made, she neither saw nor heard anything of the 
Neills. Lord Ashfield did not mention them again; and his manner 
to his mother was kind and affectionate as before. 

é“ He has forgotten them,” she said to herself; ‘‘ so much the better. 
I may take my own time and go to Madge when it suits me. There 
is no hurry. But I really expected that Ashfield would have made 
more fuss about my visiting those girls. However, I am pleased that 
he does not torment me. He seems now as though he did not care 
whether I went or not.” 

But in this Lady Ashfield was mistaken. Her son was far from 
having forgotten the Neills. He remembered them only too well; 
and not a day passed without his sending fruit, flowers, or books to 
Dora. True, they were not sent in his name, nor did he visit the girls 
in their lodgings. But that was because he felt a delicacy in doing 
ao, since his mother held aloof. He was determined to help them 
more substantially, as soon as he possibly could. This, however, was 
a difficult thing to do, and gave him many hours of anxious thought. 
The sisters were ladies, he felt, in spite of their poor surroundings ; 
and from what he had seen of Dorothy, he was sure she would be 
keenly sensitive. He wanted a woman to advise him as to how he 


A Striking Contrast. 397 


whould act; and he knew not one to whom he could turn for assist- 
ance. He had pleaded for them with his mother, but sie had pained 
him by her cold indifference. Her manner of speaking of Madge, 
and the apparent dislike she had taken to her, wounded him exceed- 
ingly, and he resolved to let the subject drop. He did not wish to 
see the girls insulted by having charity dispensed to them through a 
maid; and that, he saw, was all Lady Ashfield would do for, them at 
present. Soin her presence their names never passed his lips; and 
she was completely deceived by his seeming forgetfulness. 

One day, as Lord Ashfield strolled through the park, pondering 
deeply over the curious dilemma in which he now found himself, 
he suddenly thought of Sylvia Atherstone. She would surely help 
him. He had known her as a child, as a growing girl. She was 
always kind and generous, and would surely have no difficulty in find- 
ing some feasible way in which to assist Dora and her sister. 

‘Why did I not think of her before?” he cried. “If J can in- 
terest her in these poor orphans, their troubles and mine are practically 
atan end. AndifIcan only persuade her to visit them, and she 
sees little Dora, she camnot fail to become their friend. And Sylvia 
is so good—so kind, she is sure to grant my request. But how can i 
see her, I wonder? She lives in a whirl of gaiety since her presenta- 
tion, and is probably never at home. I must ask my mother ; she 
knows all her doings, as she is her chaperon everywhere she goes. It 
is Just tea-time, and perhaps, by a stroke of good luck, I may find the- 
madre in the house. Jl try anyway.” 

Lady Ashfield was at home, enjoying a rest and afternoon tea in 
her own particular sanctum, the pretty boudoir that Madge had 
admired so much. 

‘‘My dear Ashfield, what a delightful surprise,” she exclaimed 
joyfully, as her son entered the room and greeted her with a loving 
kiss. ‘‘ Why, it is ages since you came to have tea with me.” 

‘‘ Well, mother, you are not often to be found here at this hour,”’ 
he answered smilingly. ‘Methinks, you more frequently drink tea 
abroad than at home.’ 

é True,” she said, sighing, “I lead a-busy life and have many en- 
gagements. And since 1 have had Sylvia to chaperon, I have scarcely 
@ moment’s peace.” 

Ashfield laughed softly, and helped himself to a dainty roll of 
bread and butter. '' Now, mother, confess. You know you delight in 
living in a whirl.” 

‘‘ Indeed, you are much mistaken, Ashfield. 1 delight in nothing 
of the kind. But it is a duty I owe to society.” 

‘‘Poor mother! What a tyrant society is. But tell me, does 
Sylvia feel herself a victim also?" | 


398 The Irish Monthly. 


“Sylvia? That girl is never tired. She rushes here, and rushes 
there, and aiways looks as fresh as possible. I tell her it is unlady- 
liketo be so strong. But she only laughs and starts off for something 
new.” 

“ Quite right. I am glad she enjoys herself. I suppose it would 
be impossible to find her at home, at tea-time for instance? I daresay 
she is either out or entertaining a crowd of people?” 

Lady Ashfield looked at her son in astonishment, then bent over 
the tea-pot to hide the pleasure in her eyes. 

“Is he coming round to my views at last?” phe asked herself. 
“ Is he now anxious to meet Sylvia and woo her as his wife? It 
seems like it. For what other reason should he suddenly wish to see 
her in her home? He has heard her beauty praised, has seen how 
she is admired, and has doubtless discovered how much more charm- 
ing she is than any other girl he has ever met.” 

However, she resolved to keep her thoughts to herself, but at the 
same time give him every opportunity for cultivating Sylvia’s 
acquaintance. 

“Our little friend’s moments at home are precious,” she said 
aloud, ‘‘and are all devoted to her grandfather. She is the sweetest, 
most loving child possible. Your best chance of meeting her would 
be if you would come about with me a little more—come to balls and 
evening parties.” 

“ My dear mother, balls are not in my line. | I don’t dance, 
and ” 

“That is a pity—for this very evening Sir Eustace is giving a ball 
to celebrate Sylvia’s coming out. It will be a brilliant affair. I am 
to help to receive the guests, as they are both new to everything and 
everyone. Therefore I go early.” 

é Then I shall go with you. I don’t affect such entertainments 
much as a rule,” he said laughing. “ They rather bore me, I confess, 
but I should enjoy seeing Sylvia at her first ball. So you may count 
upon me as your escort to-night.” 

é“ That will be charming. I leave this at ten o'clock, sharp. So 
pray do not be late.” 

‘Not for worlds. And to make my punctuality more certain, I 
will dine with you, mother, if you will allow me.” 

“My dear boy, you know you are always welcome. Iam quite 
alone to-night.” 

“ So much the better. It is a long time since we dined téte-a-téte. 
Now I must be off. I-have some business to transact. Farewell till 
dinner time.” 

And well pleased at the thought of seeing Sylvia so soon, Lord 
Ashfield gotfinto a hansom and drove off to his club. 





A Striking Contrast. 399 


CHAPTER XVI. 
LORD ASHFIELD MAKES A REQUEST. 


The ballroom is ablaze with lights. Every nook and corner is 
filled with palms and sweet-smelling flowers. The doorways are hung 
with wreaths of deep yellow roses and maidenhair fern, and the 
conservatory resembles a fairy bower, with its dainty lanterns and 
choice exotics. In a small gallery at the end of the room the 
musicians are tuning their instruments, and the beautiful parquet 
shines like a mirror. Everything is ready, and awaits the arrival of 
the guests. 

“ Oh, grandpapa, is it not lovely ?” cried Sylvia gliding across the 
floor, her white tulle dress floating gracefully about her slim figure. 
“I never saw anything like the flowers. They are exquisite.” 

‘‘T am glad you are pleased, my pet,” said Sir Eustace, bending 
to kiss the girl’s eager face. ‘And I really think it looks very nice. 
But Lady Ashfield is late. I hope she will soon come. I feel quite 
nervous.” 

Sylvia laughed merrily. 

‘‘Nervous! Oh, grandpapa, what a confession.” 

“A terrible one, I admit. But I am old, Sylvia, and it is years. 
and years since I played the part of host at a ball.” 

‘ “Poor darlin§! It was a shame to torment you into giving one,” 
and she laid her hand caressingly upon his arm. “You should have 
been firm and refused. I would not have cared in the least.” 

“ But Lady Ashfield would, dear. She insisted I should give it.” 

“ You must not allow yourself to be ruled so much by Lady Ash- 
field, grandpapa.” And the white forehead was puckered into a 
frown. ‘‘ You must not, indeed.” 

“No, dearest, not after to-night. But you will enjoy this ball, my 
pet?” | | 

The frown vanished ; the beautiful eyes sparkled with pleasure. 

“ Oh, yes. I enjoy everything so much, grandpapa.” 

“That is right. That is what I want you to do.” 

“ But do you know I sometimes feel frightened—as if—well as if 
I should not always be so happy.” 

‘(My dear child, those are foolish thoughts. Put them away. 
My little granddaughter shall never have anything to make her un- 
happy, I hope—lI pray.” 

“ Dear grandpapa, not if you can help it, I am sure. You have 
always spoilt me and saved me from even the smallest trouble.” 


400 | The Lrish Monthly. 


“Of course, I have. And now let me see my pet dance and enjoy 
herself. That will prevent me from feeling tired or worried. You 
are looking well to-night, my pretty Sylvia, and your triumph will 
make me happy.” 

The girl made him a sweeping curtaey and looked up with a 
merry glance. 


é“ Your granddaughter, Sylvia, 
Is too young ; 
She cannot bear 
Your flattering tongue.”’ 


Then suddenly recovering herself, she cried : 

“ But a truce to our gaiety, sweet grandpapa. Here comes our 
kind assistant, Lady Ashfield. Now, I trust your mind is at rest.” 

“Quite,” said Sir Eustace laughing, “ I breathe more freely.” 

é“ Pray do not confess your weakness, or we are undone,” cried 
Sylvia, melodramatically, “ put on a bold front, my revered grand- 
father, and let no one say we are afraid to face our guests. Look as 
though receptions such as this wero quite an every-day occurrence. 
En avant. Courage!” 

. And taking the old man’s arm, Sylvia drew him forward to meet 
Lady Ashfield and her son. 

“ My dear Ashfield, this is indeed a pleasant surprise,” exclaimed 
Sir Eustace, turning to his young guest and shaking him warmly by 
the hand. “1 did not expect you would honour us with your company 
to-night. I fancied political meetings were more to your taste than 
balls. But believe me, Sylvia and I are delighted to see you. Eh! 
Sylvia?” 

‘‘Yes, grandpaps. Certainly we are. It was very kind of Lord 
Ashfield to come.” 

““ He came expressly to see you, Sylvia,” whispered Lady Ashfield, 
“go I hope you will be nice to him.” 

The girl raised her eyes, full of enquiry, to the lady’s face. 

“Why do you say that? I always liked Lord Ashfield,” she said 
frankly, ‘‘so of course I shall be nice to him.” 

“To be sure. I forgot. Sir Eustace, your granddaughter is ter- 
ribly matter of fact.” 

‘‘She always says exactly what she means, and she is glad to 
see your son. They are old friends, remember.” 

“Yes. But come and take me round the rooms, that I may admire 
them before the crowd comes.” 

“With pleasure.” And offering his arm, he led her away. 

“It is extremely kind of you and Sir Eustace to welcome me ev 


A Striking Contrast. 401 


warmly, Miss Atherstone,’ said Ashfield, “and I hope you will 
reward what you call my goodness by granting me a dance.” 

é“ Certainly,” she answered smiling, “which will you have? Ido 
not dance until number ten, as I must receive my friends.” 

“May I have number ten?” 

“Yes. But do you remember our first dance together, Lord Ash- 
field ?” 

‘‘Ofcourse I do. You were a wonderful little fairy in those days, 
and very impertinent to your elders. I shall never forget how you 
ridiculed my attempt at dancing.” 

é“ But I was only a child,” she said laughing and blushing, 
“and a very naughty one, I am afraid. That is eight years ago 
remember. I would not do so now.” 

‘‘T am not so sure. There is a very mocking expression in your 
eyes, Miss Sylvia. But I shall not put temptation in your way. I 
shall not ask you to dance, but merely to sit out the waltz with me. 
I have a favour to ask you.” 

“ I hope it will not be anything very difficult, for I should like to 
grant it. But see, our guests are arriving. You will find me on the 
landing outside the ballroom door, when it is time for our dance.” 

And, bowing graciously, she took her place between Sir Eustace 
and Lady Ashfield. 

The ballroom now began to fill rapidly, and upon every side Lord 
Ashfield was greeted with exclamations of surprise. His appearance 
at an entertainment of this kind was so unusual, that his friends 
could not conceal their astonishment on beholding him. But he only 
smiled and gave them anything but satisfactory reasons for his coming 
forth from his seclusion to mix with the giddy crowd. He did not 
dance, but went about amongst the people he knew, laughing and 
talking, apparently unconcerned ; whilst in reality he was feverishly 
impatient. He longed for the time for his dance with Sylvia to come 
round, as he felt keenly anxious to know what she would advise about 
the Neils. 

At last the much desired moment arrived, and Lord Ashfield 
pressed forward through the crowd to claim his beautiful young 
hostess for the waltz. 

His mother looked up as he approached, and seeing the evident 
pleasure with which he reminded the girl of their engagement, she 
felt much delighted. 

“How anxious he is to talk to her,” she thought, as they vanished 
into the conservatory together. ‘‘He seems thoroughly in earnest 
to-night.” 

And se he was. But had Lady Ashfield known why, had she 


402 The Irish Monthly. 


guessed even faintly the cause of his earnestness, the subject of his 
conversation, she would have done all that layin her power to separate 
these two, and prevent the possibility of Sylvia meeting the Neils, at 
least until she had seen Madge and obtained her promise of secrecy. 
But she was blissfully unconscious of her son’s intentions, and only too 
well pleased to see him acting, as she thought, on the good advice she 
had given him. 

Meanwhile Sylvia and Ashfield made their way through the ball- 
room, and seated themselves on two comfortable chairs amongst the 
flowers. 

“It is really a pleasure to sit down again,” said Sylvia gaily ; 
“ standing shaking hands with several hundred people is a very 
fatiguing occupation.” 

“Very. But you seem to have done charmingly,” he replied ; 
“your guests are loud in your praises, and your rooms are beautiful. 
They do you great credit. The decorations are perfect.” 

“Yes, I think they are. But I had nothing to do with them. Mr. 
Algernon Armstrong did everything for us.” 

‘“Indeed. That was kind. Is he a very old friend?” 

Sylvia laughed merrily. 

“ Well, you are behind the age, Lord Ashfield. But did you really 
never hear of Mr. Algernon Armstrong? He does all the balls in 
London.” . 

é“ Then, I must confess to being woefully behind the age. I never 
heard of him till this moment. I thought ladies always looked after 
the decorations and chose their own flowers.” 

‘“Some may. But very few, I fancy. Certainly not ignorant girls 
like me.” 

“é Then is this man a tradesman ?” 

Sylvia looked very much shocked. 

“Oh, no. Heisa gentleman. He was in the—something hussars 
—but did not like the life; so he sold out and took to this kind of 
’ thing. For a small fee—ten guineas or so—he does everything, 
settles everything, and arranges the rooms.” 

‘t A noble profession truly. But I think I should have preferred 
the hussars.” 

‘‘T daresay. But I am glad he did not. He has saved grandpapa 
and me much trouble and anxiety.” 

‘Then he is deserving of both respect and gratitude.” 

‘‘Indeed he is. And grandpapa and I have had such a glorious 
day all through him.” : 

“ How is that?” 

“Well, you see, we had nothing to do at home. The house was 








A Striking Contrast. 403 


in a state of confusion, so we went out early, and pretended we were 
abroad.” 

“ But how did you manage to do that?” he asked feeling rather 
mystified. 

é“ In this way. We had coffee and rolls in our rooms, went off 
then to the National Gallery, and saw a great many pictures by our 
old friends, Raphael, Andrea del Sarto, Francia, and Murillo. Then 
we visited Westminster Abbey, lunched at Blanchard’s, and went to 
Verbeck’s. We had afternoon tea atthe Grosvenor, and dined at the 
Grand Hotel. And then we came home just in time to dress for the. 
ball.” 

‘Such a day! My dear Miss Atherstone, how tired you must be.” 

“Not in the least. And do you know I could hardly believe Í 
was in London. It was just the kind of way grandpapa and Í used to- 
live in Paris and other foreign places. I felt the whole day as if I 
were abroad.” 

“You have a lively imagination,” he said smiling, “ and are easily 
amused.” 

“Yes. Lady Ashfield thinks me quite plebeian in my tastes. 
But,” she cried, blushing deeply, ‘how egotistical you must think me. 
The dance is half over, and I have not asked you what you want me- 
to do for you. Pray tell me now, Lord Ashfield.” 

é Thank you. It is very kind of you to remember my words, Miss. 
Atherstone. And I trust you may not be annoyed with me for 
troubling you in this matter.” 

‘‘ Annoyed ? I am greatly flattered that you should think of asking” 
me to do anything for you. I am indeed.” . 

“ Your words encourage me. And now tell me, did you ever hear 
that there were two girls on board the Cimbria with you? One about 
twelve, the other an infant ?”’ 

Sylvia looked at him in astonishment. 

“Of course I did. The Neilsa—Madge and Dora. They were 
both drowned, poor children.” 

‘‘Pardon me. They were not. They were washed ashore at a 
small village on the Cornish coast, where they have lived until now.” 

Sylvia’s eyes shone with pleasure, and she clasped her hands to- 
gether in delight. 

“ Oh !” she cried, ‘‘ how happy this will make papa. He used to. 
write so much about those children, and mourn their sad fate for a 
long, long time. Where are they, Lord Ashfield? I should so like to 
see them. Poor little things!” 

Ashfield gazed admiringly at the beautiful eager face. 

‘‘They are not little now,” he said smiling. ‘ Madge is a young 


\ 


404 " ‘The Irish Monthly. 


woman of seven or eight and twenty, and Dorothy is about your own 
age, although I fancy she looks less; when I saw her last she was 
‘small and ethereal looking.” 

“Where do they live?” | 

“ Here in London, not far from Belgrave-street.” 

“Tam so glad. Whom do they live with?” 

“No one. They live alone in a poor lodging, the rent of which 
they find very difficult to pay.” 

‘‘ Are they so very poor, then ? ”” 

“Very. Madge teaches in a school, and would give music lessons 
if she could ; and Dorothy ’’—his voice faltered—‘‘ sweet little Dora, 
who should have been surrounded with every luxury, tended,with the 
greatest care, was brought up in a wretched orphanage, and was 
obliged to work for her daily bread in a dreasmaker's establishment, 
till her health broke down. She now lies on a sofa in their dreary 
lodging, fretting and pining because she cannot earn money and help 
her sister.’’ 

‘* This shall not go on,” cried Sylvia decidedly ; ‘‘ something shall 
be done for them at once. Grandpapa ”"—— 

‘‘ Pray do not say anything about them yet to Sir Eustace,” he 
said earnestly. ‘‘ Go and see the girls; talk to them and get to know 
them, and then we shall see what can be done. They are very sensi- 
tive, and may be difficult to help in any substantial manner. My 
mother has taken some dislike to Madge, and should Sir Eustace 
mention them, she might say something to prejudice him against 
them.”’ 

_ “Your mother! Does Lady Ashfield know these girls too? It is 
strange she never told me about them.” 

“She was so indignant with Madge, why I cannot think, that she 
would do nothing for them. Her conduct in this matter has been a 
-great trouble to me. We are bound in honour, if in nothing else, to 
help them, for Dorothy by her presence of mind saved our lives.” 

“ What a brave girl! But when did she do that ? ” 

“Two years ago.” 

And then he told her the story of the runaway horses and 
Dorothy’s struggle with the labourers. 

‘‘She must be a darling,” cried Sylvia, “ and wonderfully strong 
of will. I long to see her and help to make her happy.” 

“ God bless you. I thought you would take an interest in them.”’ 

“ Of course. I will go to see them to-morrow. But I really think 
I must tell grandpapa. I never have any secrets from him, and you 
need not be uneasy. Papa wrote so warmly about these girls and 
their father that, no matter what Lady Ashfield said, he would surely 
help them.” 


A Striking Contrast. 405 


“Very well. Perhaps you are right. And there is one thing you 
might do that would be kind. . Take Anne Dane to see them. Madge 
is very anxious to meet her once more.’ 

“I cannot do that as Anne is in the country. She is not strong 
and does not like London. But I am sure she will be glad to hear 
about the Neils. She has often wept bitterly in thinking of their sad 
fate. She was very fond of the little one.” 

‘Poor child! "Would that we had found them out sooner. They 
lived within ten miles of Ashfield Park. But then my mother and I 
were always away. If we had only heard about them some years ago, 
their lives might have been very different.” 

‘*Yes,” said Sylvia in a voice full of emotion, “and what a contrast 
my life has been. And yet” 

She stopped abruptly ; a shudder passed over her slender frame. 

é“ I, too,” she whispered, ‘‘might have been cast away on some 
lonely shore, and never reached dear grandpapa.”’ 

“Thank God you were saved from that fate,” he said earnestly. 
é But pray do not let this story depress you, Miss Atherstone. See, 
people are beginning to wonder at our solemn looks. There is 
nothing to grieve over now.’ Between us we shall surely be able to 
make these girls happy.” 

“I sincerely hope so. And thank you a thousand times for 
allowing me the pleasure of being the first to come to their assist- 
ance.” 

‘‘The thanks should all come from me,” he answered smiling, 
é for you have taken a load from my shoulders. And now I must 
say good-night. Here comes your partner for the next waltz. I shall 
make my adieux to Sir Eustace and slip away. Good-night.” 

é“ Good-night, Lord Ashfield. I shall long for to-morrow to come, 
and I think you may trust me to do what is right.” 

And as Sylvia put her hand in his, she raised her lovely eyes, full 
of deep, tender feeling, to his. 

é“ I do not doubt it,” he said with emotion. ‘‘ You are as good as 
you are beautiful. May God biess you.” | 


And before the girl could speak again, he had vanished intozthe 
crowd. 








CHAPTER XVII. 
MADGE LOSES HER SITUATION. 


As Mdme. Garniture drove away, Dora toiled wearily up the high 
staircase to her room. She walked like one in a dream, and was 


4(6 The Irish Monthly. 


scarcely conscious where she went. Habit alone guided her; and so 
she unlocked her door, took off her hat, and flung herself down once 
more upon the old hair-covered sofa. 

Her head was in a whirl, her mind bewildered and excited, her 
cheeks burned feverishly, and her eyes shone with a brilliant light. 

It was her dinner-hour, and there on the table was the chop that 
Madge had left ready for her before going out in the morning. She 
had only to put it on the fire, in her usual way, and eat it with the 
roll of fresh bread that her sister had taken care to provide íor her. 
But she forgot the time of day, forgot that she should be hungry, 
and lay upon the sofa staring at the ceiling and murmuring sadly 
from time to time. | 

‘Sylvia at last, so good, so beautiful, and yet not Sylvia, but 

‘Dora. Mistress of all that should be mine. Happy and proud of her 
position. Poor girl, poor unsuspecting girl. Oh, what is to be done? 
What is to be done?” 

Thus she remained all through the long afternoon, and no une 
came near to disturb her reverie. But at last, as the clock struck 
eight, Madge’s foot was heard upon the stair, and Madge’s voice cried 
out in surprise as she entered the room : 

“Dora ! What have you been doing? Why is there no light? 
No fire?” — 

Dorothy sprang to her feet. 

“Oh, Madge,” she gasped, ‘‘I am so sorry. But '— 

Then throwing her arms round her sister’s neck, she burst into a 
tit of passionate weeping. . 

‘““My darling,” said Madge gently, and caressing the golden head 
as it lay upon her breast, “ has that cruel landlord been here again ? 
Has he”— 

‘‘No, no—it is something more than that. Madge, Madge, I have’ 
found Sylvia Atherstone.” 

Madge staggered slightly, her lips quivered; every vestige of 
colour left her cheeks. Her heart gave a wild bound—a leap of joy. 
And raising her eyes to heaven she murmured, “ My God, I thank 
Thee.” ‘‘And now, my pet,” she said drawing Dora down upon the 
sufa, ‘‘be calm, and tell me all. How and when did you see this 
girl?” 

é This morning in her own home, a splendid house in the Crom- 
well-road—a mansion Mme. Garniture caJled it—but oh, Madge, she 
is so good, so beautiful.” 

“I daresay ; she was a sweet, a lovely child.” 

“She was so. kind to me, Madge, so thoughtful, although I was 
there as a poor work girl,” sobbed Dora; ‘‘and when I heard who 





A Strikiny Contrast. 407 


she was, I felt such a traitor, stealing into her home, learning where 
she lived, that I might betray her and rob her of everything! ” 

“ Do not call it robbery, Dora. It will only be restitution.” 

“ Restitution! If—oh, if she would but give us a little of her 
wealth, we might allow her to remain as she is—not ask for restitu- 
tion, Madge.” 

“My dear, it must be all or nothing. IfI go to Sir Eustace—for 
that, though I never knew it until Lady Ashfield called him so, is 
‘the name of your grandfather, if I go to him, I must say ‘this girl 
is not your grandchild, but an impostor and my sister. Your son’s 
daughter has been brought up as a pauper. Restore her to her rights, 
send away this Sylvia, who, beautiful and graceful as she is, is only 
a usurper, and take to your heart this little, fragile, golden haired 
waif, who has suffered want and privation all these weary years.’” 

“Yes, yes. So I have,” said Dora plaintively, “and you too, my 
darling, you too. When I am rich, you shall share my wealth. 
Nothing shall separate us, Madge. Promise me that.” 

“ Not if I can help it, love.’ 

“ And Sylvia shall live with us too. She will not mind me taking 
her place, if I let her stay with me, and be my sister. She has been 
first all these years. She will not mind giving up to me so very much 
after all, perhaps. But oh, I do wish she had not been so kind and 
sweet. Were she proud, and cold, and hard, I should not care. But 
knowing that she” —— 

‘‘Dora, do not wish her different from what she is. If she is 
good, really good, so much the better. She will then bear this trial— 
for it will, it must be a trial—in the proper spirit. And now, let us 
forget her for the present. We know her address and can go to her when 
we choose to declare ourselves. But I must think the matter well out, 
and determine how it is to be done. I do not wish to be scorned as a 
madwoman or a liar by Sir Eustace, as I was by Lady Ashfield. I 
must lay my plans and take Anne Dane by surprise. If I can force 
her to tell the truth, our troubles will soon be at an end.” 

“Yes, dear. You are right. And now, my poor Madge, you 
must want your supper.” 

‘Yes. But you must want it more. For I find that you have 
never touched your chop, Dora, and, Dora, that was very wrong. So 
now I must be quick and get something ready.” 

Then down upon her knees went Madge to light the fire whereon 
to cook their evening meal. 

Several days passed over and the girls were still in doubt as to the 
best manner in which to approach Sir Eustace Atherstone. 

Anne Dane, Madge found she could not see, for on inquiring 


408 The Irish Monthly. 


at 4 Cromwell Mansions, she was told that she did not live there, 
but in the country. This surprised the girl and increased her diffi- 
culties a hundred-fold. She was much perplexed, and knew not what 
to do. To force her way into the old man’s presence would, she 
felt, be folly, and only expose her to insult and humiliation. Lady 
Ashfield’s reception of her story had taught her a lesson, and she 
resolved to wait as patiently as she could till some fitting opportunity 
should present itself. But as she went on with her work at the 
school, she prayed constantly that something might turn up, for her 
heart was full of anguish. It was hard to make ends meet; and 
Dora grew weaker and more fragile every day. This she knew was 
for want of proper air and nourishment. And her mind became em- 
bittered, her soul full of hatred against these wealthy people who 
were go cruelly defrauding her darling of her rights. 

One night, as she was returning from a weary day’s teaching, she- 
passed by Sir Eustace Atherstone’s splendid mansion. A carriage. 
was waiting, and presently the door opened ; the sound of rippling 
laughter was heard, and Sylvia, arrayed in pure white, her shoulders 
covered with a mantle of plush and swansdown, came forth on her- 
grandfather's arm. 

The light of the lamps fell upon her beautiful face, and touched 
the rich auburn of her hair. 

Madge trembled, and leaned heavily against the railings. 

é She is lovely,” she cried, ‘‘ but oh, what a cruel wrong has been 
inflicted on my poor Dora. And by my sister! All this should be 
hers, and shall be hers if there is justice on earth or in heaven.” 

The carriage door was shut, the footman mounted the box, and 
all unconscious of the misery she had caused, Sylvia drove away to her 
dinner-party. 

After this Madge grew morose and taciturn. The girls at Pene- 
lope Lodge complained of her irritable temper, and one after the other- 
refused to receive their lessons from her. Her employer was much 
annoyed, and sending for Madge, reprimanded her severely, theaten- 
ing to dismiss her immediately did she hear any further complaints. 
Terrified at what might be her fate and Dora’s should she thus lose- 
her salary, which, poor as it was, was their only means of subsistence, 
the yirl promised to watch more carefully over her temper, and left 
the mistress’s presence firmly resolved to do so. 

But, alas! she knew not how severely she was to be tried. 

Schoolgirls are frequently wild and thoughtless. They trouble. 
thomselves little about the sufferings of their teachers—are selfish and. 
unforgiving. This the pupils of Penelope Lodge soon proved by 
their unfeeling conduct towards the poor hard-worked yoverness. 


A Striking Contrast. 409 


a 


Madge had angered them by her irritability and sharp words, 
and perfectly callous as to the consequences to her, they determined 
to get rid of her if they could. 

So they set to work in a systematic manner, annoying and insult- 
ing her on every possible occasion. It is needless to enter into 
particulars here, or recount the spiteful things that were done, the im- 
pertinent speeches that were made, the acts of disobedience that were 
committed. Poor Madge suffered keenly. But she struggled bravely 
with herself, smiled when her heart was ready to break, and spoke 
gently to her tormentors when wounded to the quick by their 
impertinence. 

Had the girl been happy, had her mind been free from care, she 
would probably have triumphed over these cruel children, and made 
them see the error of their ways. But her nerves were uustrung. 
She was full of bitterness and sorrow;, and at last, stung beyond 
endurance, she flashed out angrily upon her pupils and upbraided . 
them for their insolence. In an instant the class was in rebellion, and 
further work was impossible. Mrs. Prim was sent for and called 
upon to decide between the girls and the governess. It was a 
difficult task. ‘There were, doubtless, faults on both sides. But 
Madge’s were the most apparent. She had been already warned, and 
had failed to profit by the warning, and so must go. 

é“ I am sorry you could not manage to keep the peace, Miss Neil,” 
said the schoolmistress stiffly. ‘‘Sorry and surprised. But seeing 
that you are capable of doing so, I must ask you to leave my service 
this day month.” 

Madge bowed her head in silence. Her heart was too full for 
words. She felt ten pairs of eyes fixed upon her in triumph, and she 
trembled lest by look or speech she should show the anguish she 
endured. 

“ And now, young ladies,” continued Mrs. Prim severely, “I beg 
that you will pay attention to your lesson. Miss Neil, you may go to 
the junior class. I will remain here.”’ 

Madge bowed once more, and with throbbing brow and beating 
heart passed proudly across the room and out upon the stairs. Here 
a sob escaped her and a shower of tears fell on her burning cheeks. 
But she had no time to indulge in grief. The class was waiting. 
She must do her duty. So drying her eyes and murmuring a fervent 
prayer for help, she ran on down stairs. 

é A note for you, Miss Neil,” said the porter as she passed through 
the hall. 

And seeing that the writing was Dora’s, Madge tore open the 
envelope in alarm. 

Vou. xvi. No. 206. 79 


410 ' The Irish Monthly. 


“What can be wrong? Why does she write? God keep my 
darling,” she cried, as with trembling fingers she unfolded the letter. 

But she was quickly reassured. Dora’s note was a message of 
peace. It ran thus :— 

“Come home soon, dearest Madge. I have such good news to tell 
you.—Dora.” I 

Madge kissed the signature and smiled. ~ 

“I cannot go till my usual hour. I dare not ask such a favour 
to-night. But your words, sweet sister, have cleared away some of 
the clouds that enveloped me. The thought of your good tidings will 
help me to bear cheerfully whatever ‘torture I may have to suffer 
before I go home.” | 

And, feeling considerably brighter, she entered the junior class- 
room, and quietly seated herself in Mrs. Prim’s place behind the 
desk. 
° (Zo be continued.) 


A SHEPHERD WITHOUT SHEEP.* 


We climbed the hills together; we were fain 
To learn the shepherd’s trade, and wheresoe’er 
Our elders led we roamed, a happy pair ; 
But he will never tread our hills again. 
For my belovéd—O, the life-long pain !— 
Died in the Spring, and I alone must fare— 
Died, ere the spring had yeaned his future care, 
He, ever the more eager of the twain. 


So seek I now no pleasure with my mates, 
But when my work is done his watch I keep ; 
For with a double flock I must away 
To meet him on the mountains where he waits 
With the Good Shepherd, who will count my sheep 
For the new pastures of eternal day. 


Joun Firzpatricr, O.M.I. 


* Patrick L. MacSherry, O.M.I., who died during his preparation for the 
priesthood. 








Sketches in Irish Biography. 411 


SKETCHES IN IRISH BIOGRAPHY. 
No. 19.— JoHN CoRNELIUS O’CALLAGHAN. 


'T'EE name of John Cornelius O'Callaghan is one entitled to a 

prominent place in the long list of Irish literary celebrities, 
and is certainly deserving of fuller recognition than has yet been 
awarded to his life-long labours in the cause of his country’s 
history. 

The newspaper obituaries at the time of his death and a slight 
sketch in this Magazine are the only record of a man whose 
individuality of character was as remarkable as his genius, and 
whose services in rescuing from misrepresentation and oblivion 
some of the least known and most important passages of Irish 
history are probably reserved for the appreciation of future times 
less troubled than the present. . If left unnoticed until then, how- 
ever, nothing more than his works can survive, and the personality 
of the man and those traits which were familiar to his contempo- 
raries will be no longer known. Hence, from the sources just 
mentioned, supplemented by circumstances referred to by O’Cal- 
laghan in his works or in his conversations during an acquaintance 
extending from those distant “boyhood’s years ”—now, alas ! 
more than poor Mangan’s “Twenty Golden Years Ago,” when I 
first met Mr. O’Callaghan at my father’s table, down to the time 
when, in the same company, I sat by his death-bed and followed 
his hearse to Glasnevin Cemetery, and during which long period I 
enjoyed the privilege of intimate friendship with the historian of 
‘‘The Irish Brigade,”—has been compiled the following brief 
notice of a man who well merits a better chronicle than these im- 
perfect reminiscences. 

John Cornelius O’Callaghan was born in Dublin in 1805, and, 
as he boasted, drew his blood from canny Ulster as well as from 
the more fervid and imaginative Munster race. His father, Mr. 
John O'Callaghan, of Talbot-street, was one of the first Catholics 
admitted to the profession of attorney in Ireland, on the partial 
relaxation of the Penal Laws in 1793, and at the time of the 
Union was a highly respected solicitor, who succeeded in amass- 
ing a competency which subsequently enabled the younger O’Cal- 
laghan to follow his literary tastes. His mother was a southern 


412 The Irish Monthly. 


lady—a Miss Donovan, who is described as having been a beauty 
in her youth, and whom I well remember in her latter years as a 
highly intellectual woman. 

_ At an early age John Cornelius O'Callaghan was sont, as a 
pupil to then newly-established Jesuit College of Clongowes Wood, 
where he was imbued with that love of classical learning which 
distinguished his after life, and with those principles of religion 
which consoled his last moments. Subsequently he was transferred 
to another school nearer to Dublin, at Blanchardstown, kept by a 
Catholic priest, the Rev. Joseph Joy Deane. At the completion 
of his education he became a candidate for membership in his 
father’s profession, but, fortunately for the interests of Irish 
history, he evinced such an instinotive dislike for those shrewd 
practices and pettifogging ways by which, he was wont to say, 
success in the law is chiefly attainable, that as soon as was pos- 
sible he shook its dust from his feet, and devoted himself wholly to 
the more congenial if less profitable pursuits of literature. 

Of his brothers, of whom he had either two or three, he was 
accustomed to refer most frequently and in terms of warm affection 
to the younger, who, having entered the medical department of 
the army at an early age, retired, after a long service in India, 
. with the rank of Surgeon-General, and is still living in England 
with his family, one of whom was, I believe, married to Mr. 
Irving, the well-known actor. His sisters were married and left 
families, of whom two ladies in this city and one distinguished 
member of the Vincentian Order are the surviving representatives. 

Mr. O’Callaghan’s mother, from whom he apparently inherited 
much of his talent and some of the originality of his character, 
was a lady of considerable mental culture and some eccentricity, 
and attained a very advanced age. One of my earliest recollec- 
tions of O'Callaghan goes back to my boyhood, when I was sent 
with some message to his house in Dorset-street, where I met his 
mother, then a very old lady, but with mind and memory unim- 
paired by age. The scene was one,I shall never forget. The 
venerable matron, very oddly dressed, and then retaining little 
traces of her early comeliness, filled an arm-chair on one side of 
the fireplace, whilst the opposite one was occupied by her son, clad 
in a flowing dressing-robe of faded pattern, his customary bay wig 
replaced by an old-fashioned white nightcap ; and there they sat 
for nearly an hour, heedless of any interruption, discussing some 


Sketches in Irish Biography. 413 


forgotten point of historical controversy with extraordinary learning 
and equal vehemence on both sides, until at last both appealed to 
my judgment, to my no small bewilderment and consternation. I 
should, however, add that to the day of her death, O’Callaghan’s 
respect and love for his mother were constant and unfailing, and 
that to her he always ascribed his own literary tastes and much of 
the knowledge embodied in his works. 

O’Callaghan’s first appearance in print was in the columns of 
The Comet, a newspaper established in 1831 by the members of the 
Comet Club, and in the Irish Monthly Magazine of Politics and 
Literature, which from 1830 to 1833 was carried on by Mr. 
Ronayne, then M.P. for Dungarvan, and two other barristers, 
Messrs. Close and Kennedy, and amongst the contributors to 
which, besides Mr. O’Callaghan, Daniel O’Connell, his eldest 
daughter, Mrs. Fitzsimons, Richard Lalor Sheil, and many 
other distinguished Irish writers were included. 

The abolition of the Protestant Church establishment in Ireland 
as a state-supported institution was one of the chief objecte of the 
Comet Club; and by the able newspaper which owed its existence 
to that body were sown the seeds of the agitation that bore fruit 
long subsequently in the disestablishment and disendowment of the 
once-apparently unassailable citadel of sectarian intolerance and 
ascendancy. “To get rid of such a glaring insult to justice, 
Christianity, and Protestantism in general, and to Ireland in par- 
ticular,” says Mr. O'Callaghan,” the original Comet Club, a political 
and literary society embracing members of various creeds, had the 
merit of combining in Dublin about the commencement of 1881. 
From the head-quarters of the ciub, No. 10 D’Olier-street, the 
commencing blaze of the vigorous fire against the established 
Church, and in favour of the voluntary system, which has been 
since so widely spread throughout England and Scotland, was in 
consequence kindled by the irregular and fantastic but keen and 
scorching light of “ The Parson’s Horn-Book.”’ The first edition 
of this, with etchings by Lover, was sold off in less than a fort- 
night, and the general impressions of ridicule and disgust towards 
that church were briskly kept up by other publications of the club, 
but particularly by the establishment of The Comet, a weekly Sun- 
day newspaper. “The public feeling evoked on this question was 


* “The Green Book,” by John Cornelius O'Callaghan, p. 30, Dublin, 1845. 


414 The Irish Monthly. a 


thus expressed in the following lines written at that time by one of 
O’Callaghan’s oldest literary friends, the late Dr. R. R. Madden, 
under the title of “ The Voluntary Principle ”:— 


“ God bless the cause, the righteous cause, 
Of Liberty and peace, 
And bless the land with equal laws, 
And bid injustice cease. 


“: Protect religion’s freedom, Lord ! 
From fatal gifts and guile, 

And weapon deadly as the sword, 
The courtier’s crafty wile. 


% From all connection with the State 
Its independence guard, 
Six hundred years’ resisted hate 
And brave defence reward. 


sé The spotless mind keep undefiled 
From every sordid strain, 
, ' And priesta and prelates unbeguiled 
By Governmental gain. 





é“ Thy Sacred Truth their treasure be, 
Thy wisdom their defence, 
And its great riches set them free 
From thoughts of pounds and pence. 


é Thy altars as of old sustained, 
Thy pastors by the flock, 
And by the fold the Church maintained, 
That’s built upon the rock. 


é This temple still, however poor 
And lowly it may be, 
Preserve from every splendid lure, 
And leave it ppor—but free. 


“ Its altar never be profaned 
By pensioned priests, I pray, 
Nor served by Ministers maintained 
In any Statesman’s pay.”’ 


' The recent success of the Irish people in their long struggle for 
Emancipation, the effect on the public mind of the resistance then 
victorious, though with too short-lived success, made by the 
oppressed Polish race to their Muscovite tyrants—the patriotic 
excitement which was spread from Dublin over Ireland by the 





Sketches in Irish Biography. 415 


metropolitan meetings for Repeal of the Union, combined with 
the general agitation for Parliamentary Reform, all, with other 
causes, were enumerated by Mr. O’Callaghan as rendering the 
period of the establishment of the Comet Club as the best that 
could have been chosen by them for founding an original and ' 
vigorously-written newspaper on their principles. 

These principles cannot, be better expressed than by the follow- 
ing lines that appeared above the signature, “Alfieri,’”’ in the first 
number of The Comet '— 


“ Our Comet shines to chase foul mists away, 
And drive dark falsehood from her cell to-day, 
To scathe the hands that break man’s chartered laws, 
Or pounce on nations with a vulture’s claws. 
To raise the prostrate, soothe the anguished breast, 
To check the oppressor, bid the goaded rest— _ 
To give to man true knowledge of his kind, 
And lift him to that rank which Heaven designed— 
For ends like these, from high our Comet moves, 
Bright Freedom wings it, and fair Truth approves. 


“ Yes, ‘twill be ours ‘to check the bigot’s frown, 
Or despot’s stride that ‘ramplee Freedom down. 


“ Yoo—Themis’ bench shall see no hand i impure 
Deal partial laws to crush the suffering poor— 
And bloated prelates shall with bigots fly, 

While pure Religion waves her torch on high, 
And Sacred Truth, with gospel-flag unfurled, 
Diffuse unpaid-for doctrines through the world.”’ 


Such were the principles on which The Comet commenced its 
course, and so successful was the venture, that from May to 
October, 1831, when its original founders retired from its direction, 
it rapidly rose to a circulation, then considered large, of 2,300 
copies a-week. After this time its character became altered and 
deteriorated by the introduction of local personalities and disrepu- 
table scandal, by which, at the expiration of two years, its circula- 
tion was eventually destroyed, and by the secession of the majority 
of the original Comet Club from that paper, they, with other 
gentlemen, formed themselves into another literary society 
called the “Irish Brigade,” and got up a periodical, entitled 
The Irish Monthly Magazine. 

Of two literary and political associations which included so 
many men of ability, probably the last survivor was Mr. O’Calla- 


416 The Irish Monthly. 


ghan. The best testimony to the merit of these societies was the 
reluctant tribute paid by one of their oldest opponents in the cause 
of misrule and orange ascendancy, namely the Quarterly Revievo, 
which at that time admitted that each of them had “ exhibited 
public proof that its labours were not frivolous or unproductive.” 

Mr. O’Callaghan’s contributions to The Comet and The Irish 
Monthly Magazine, with several other of his earlier writings, were 
reprinted many years ago in a now Very scarce volume, under the 
title of “ The Green Book; or, Gleanings from the Writing-desk 
of a Literary Agitator.” The first edition of this very curious 
Olla podrida of historic and political research, with some forty of 
his poetical pieces, was published in Dublin in 1840, and the second 
edition, adorned with an excellent likeness of the author by W. H. 
Holbrooke, in 1845. The publisher was James Duffy, whose 
services to Irish and Catholic literature ought never to be for- 
gotten. 

In the earlier volumes of Zhe Nation he was a frequent and 
valued contributor ; and his services to that famous journal have 
been generously acknowledged by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy in his 
“Young Ireland,” and still more in his “ Life of Thomas Davis,’ 
whjch has just appeared. Indeed, O’Callaghan was wont to claim 
a share in the origin of The Nation, and in the preface to the 
second edition of his “ Green Book ”’ he refers to it as “that able 
weekly periodical, the necessity for whose establishment in Dublin 
was first suggested by the present publication.” When the three 
D’s put their young heads together “ under a noble in the Phoenix 
Park, facing Kilmainham,” the external help promised by Davis 
was the co-operation of John Cornelius O’Callaghan, “ whose 
‘Green Book ’ [says Davis’s biographer] was attracting attention 
at that time ”; and in a note he describes the work as a miscellany 
of poetry—the notes, valuable historical studies—the verses, rather 
slipshod, being more than ten years older than the establishment 
of Zhe Nation and belonging to quite a different school.” Yet, in 
a private letter of Davis to Daniel Owen Madden after the 
appearance of the first number of The Nation, one of O’Callaghan’s 
pieces of verse is the only thing praised. After naming the 
leaders written by Dillon and Duffy, he mentions that “ ‘ Ancient 
Irish Literature,’ the epigram on Stanley, and the capital ‘ Exter- 
minator’s Song,’ are by O’Callaghan.” Just a year before, 
writing to P. R. Webb, from 61 Baggot-street, on the 28th Sep- 


Sketches tn Irish Biography. 417 


tember, 1841, he wrote :—“ O'Callaghan is in London, staggering 
with Parisidn lore. His book is beginning to sell, and will be 
noticed in Zhe Dublin Review next month.” We have searched 
The Dublin in vain for this notice. 

We must make room for a rather long passage about O’Cal- 
laghan, which begins at page 134 of Sir Gavan Duffy’s latest, but, 
we trust, not last work :— 


“ O'Callaghan was older than his colleagues, and of another school. He had 
gone through the first Repeal agitation, and had never quite recovered from ita 
disillusions. He was a tall, dark, strong man, who spoke a dialect compounded 
apparently in equal parts from Johnson and Cobbett, in a voice too loud for social 
intercourse. ‘I love,’ he would cry, ‘not the entremets of literature, but the strong 
meat and drink of sedition,’ or, ‘I make a daily meal on the smoked carcase of 
Irish history.’ Some one affirmed that he heard him instructing his partner in a 
dance on the exact limits of the Irish pentarchy and the malign slanders of 
Giraldus Cambrensis. O'Callaghan was a thoroughly honest man. * * # 
O'Callaghan frankly declared that he could not afford to waste a grain of his repu- 
tation by hyper-modesty. Whatever he wrote was published under his name, or 
a recognized nom de plume, and was generally some extension of the field of historic 
research opened in the ‘Green Book.’ A note of this period will illustrate his 
ingenuons individuality.’’ 


‘* Tuesday, July 1st (Anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne, both as to 
day of the week and day of the month). 


‘* Deak Dorry og Davis, OR Davis AND Durry, 

é“ I'm much obliged for your insertion of my little note to the Editor of Limerick 
Chronicle ; and as it strikes me that you’ll have a good opportunity for an article 
this week, I may as well mention it. 

“ There’s the festival the Orangemen are to hold, I believe, this evening, anent 
the so-called glorious victory of the Boyne ; and really you ought not to let slip 
such an occasion as will present itself for putting an end to that humbug in Satur- 
day’s Nation. You may have seen what a capital hand the Jfail lately made of 
O’Connell’s tumble in the mud with regard to Galileo’s business, which never cost 
us here anything equal to the bad consequences resulting from the false notions, so 
long, and even still, sought to be kept up, on the subject of the Boyne affair. The 
exact number of British, Northern Irish, Huguenot, Dutch, and Danish infantry 
and cavalry regiments are stated in full from official data in my second edition ; 
from which all the real merit of the English and their Ulster allies on that day can 
be deduced for the public, in the way you'll be ao well able to do in the Nation. 
And as what you'll say will be believed, even by men of anti-Catholic notions in 
politics, when other papers would not be minded, it’s in your power to do much 
good by at least contributing to put a stop to such ‘ revivals’ as those Orange ones 
connected with the affair of the lst of July and 12th. They have been the founds- 
tion of a great deal of evil to Ireland, so do what you can to coffin them. Until the 
Koran is destroyed there will be Mahometans. 

‘¢ Ag ever, sincerely yours, 
“: In the singular and dual number, 
“J. C.C. 


418 ‘The Irish Monthly. 


The preceding letter was written in 1845; for we have taken 
the useless trouble of investigating the matter, and, after the two 
first volumes of The Nation, which chanced -to be at hand, had 
shown that July Ist was not Tuesday in 1843 or 1844, an old 
prayerbook came to the rescue and with its table of moveable feasts 
proved that in 1845 the first of July was in accordance with the 
date of the Green Bookman’s letter. . 

As a trivial illustration of that harmless self-consciousness and 
amiable self-assertiveness which Gavan Duffy has attributed to 
J. C. O'Callaghan, which many distinguished men have shared 
with him, and without which they might never have taken the 
pains to distinguish themselves—we venture to give the meagre 
result of our cross-examination of a gifted kinswoman of the 
author of Soggarth Aroon, who as a child had often helped to en- 
tertain the historian of the Irish Brigade at her parents’ fireside. 
Her most notable reminiscence was that, one evening after their 
guest had taken almost as many cups of tea as Mrs. Thrale ever 
poured out for Dr. Johnson, he turned to the little girl beside him : 
“ Now you can say that you.have seen the great historian in his 
cups.” | 

If O'Callaghan had never written anything beyond his notes to 
the Macarie Excidium, sufficient evidence of his extraordinary eru- 
dition, industry, and love of country might be found therein. 
This work drew forth the most flattering tributes to the editor’s 
historic accuracy and learning, even from those most strenuously 
opposed to all his views. Thus Macaulay, for instance, wrote to 
him: “To a considerable extent our views coincide. I admit that 
the Irish were not like the English Jacobites, the defenders of 
arbitrary power. The cause of James presented itself, no doubt, 
to the Roman Catholics of Munster as the cause of civil and 
spiritual liberty.” When Macaulay visited Ireland in quest of in- 
formation bearing on the Jacobite and Williamite Wars in this 
country, he expressed a wish to see the editor of the Macarie 
Excidium, and the latter was accordingly requested to wait on the 
eloquent word-painter whose historic accuracy was less conspicuous 
than his brilliant descriptive power. O’Callaghan, however, 
resented this summons as an indignity. “ No, sir,” he replied, “I 
shall not wait on Mr. Macaulay. If he desires an interview, he 
can ascertain where I live, and may call on Mr. O’Callaghan if he 
wishes to do so.” 


' Sketches in Irish Biography. 419 


As a politician, O’Callaghan was an ardent and uncompro- 
mising nationalist of the old school, of which the typical represen- 
tatives were Davis, Gavan Duffy, R. R. Madden, Denis Florence 
M‘Carthy, Father Meehan, Williams, Clarence Mangan, and those 
other gifted men of genius and letters, whose names with his own 
may be found in “The Songs and Ballads, by Writers in The 
Nation,” published in 1846. His habits and tastes, however, were 
not such as to lead him into any very prominent participation in 
the turmoil of public political life. Nevertheless, he was a warm 
supporter of O’Connell, and not only in the great Tribune’s 
gatherings in Conciliation Hall, but also at the monster meetings of 
1843, where O’Connell, then in the zenith of his power, swayed the 
vast multitudes that thronged around him at Tara, at Athlone, 
and Mullaghmast. At the last named meeting, in October, 1843, 
conjointly with Hogan the sculptor, in the presence of 400,000 
spectators, he took part in crowning the Liberator with the fac- 
simile of the ancient Irish regal diadem. 

This, I believe,.was O’Callaghan’s last appearance on a public 
platform. After the secession of the Young Ireland Party he con- 
fined his political efforts to the emanations of his prolific pen. Nor 
in the more recent political affairs of later years did he again 
appear in the arena of public life, though consistently maintaining 
to the last moments of existence all the opinions of his youth and 
manhood. 

One of his later works was the edition of the Macarie Excidium, 
which in 1847 he published at the request of the Archsological 
Society, and which, as the writer already cited has observed, will 
remain a lasting monument of his erudition, ability, and industry. 
But his greatest work was the History of the Irish Brigade in the 
Service of France and other foreign countries, between the de- 
thronement of James II. and the death of the Young Pretender. 
This, after many ineffectual efforts to obtain a publisher at home, 
was ultimately brought out by Messrs. Cameron, of Glasgow, in 
1867, and unquestionably, as has been said, is “a mine of infor- 
mation from which future historians will be glad to draw their 
materials,” and was the labour of love on which he expended the 
energies of the best part of his life. As far back as March 8, 1843, 
John O’Connell writes from Carysfort Avenue, Blackrock, telling 
Davis that he had made over all his Irish Brigade documents to 
O’Callaghan, who was then living at 37 Upper Merrion-street, 


420 The Irish Monthly. 


and whom he asked Davis to consult on the matter, as 61 Baggot- 
street was not many paces distant. Our author was thus preparing 
for his magnum opus during more than a quarter of a century. 

There has been more than one reference to the fact that J. C. 
O’Callaghan did not confine himself to sober prose, but not un- 
frequently indulged in a poetic flight, as may be seen by his 
‘Green Book,” in which are included no less than forty-two 
specimens of his verse. These, with some,.exceptions, were chiefly 
on ephemeral topics of the day, and hence have now lost much of 
their original interest. Nor can it be pretended that his muse 
soared very high, or that its effusions are likely to survive the 
remembrance of his friends and contemporaries. One specimen 
may here suffice—his epigram on the weeping and laughing 
philosophers :— 


é “Tf we look,” says Racine, ‘ to the lives of the wise, 

What opposite maxims we find ! 

Here sad Heracleitus despondingly cries, 
While Democritus laughs at mankind.’ 

Yet as long as my stay in this planet extends, 
To follow them both I propose : 

With one, may I weep for my suffering friends— 
With the other, I'll laugh at my foes.”’ 


O’Callaghan’s acquaintance with the forgotten bye-ways of 
ancient literary research was probably unrivalled. As a writer 
(quoted in this Magazine, vol. xv., page 249) says :—“ He knew 
almost the exact spot in which reposed every old manuscript in 
Europe. Living as he did amongst the ancients, he had their 
sayings always on his tongue, and would walk into a friend’s 
drawingroom quoting Hanibal in such a way as to give the im- 
pression that the great general has just left him at the gate. A 
man to shed tears for the death of a pet canary, and to lash him- 
self to fury over a tale of human injustice or wrong ; he had a just 
and almost a martial spirit. He was one of the old school now 
passing away—of a small band of intrepid savants who denied 
themselves much that is desirable in life in order to toil amongst 
the ruins of our language and past, resolved that all traces of the 
prints left by noble Irish feet should not be wholly obliterated 
from the sands of time.” 

O’Callaghan’s death took place at his residence in Fitzgibbon- 
street, Dublin, in the seventy-seventh year of his age. His last 


The Highway to Fame. : 421 


hours were soothed by the consolations of his religion, and the 
untiring ministrations of one of the most venerable and zealous 
priests who ever adorned the Catholic Church of Ireland and his 
own distinguished Order, the late Father Callan, S.J. During 
that last illness the present writer had the privilege of witnessing 
the resignation and piety with which his dear old friend bore the 
pains of approaching dissolution, and the humble confidence with 
which he looked forward to that better life beyond the grave, to 
which he passed with faculties undimmed by age or infirmity, on 
the 24th of April, 1883. R. I. P. 
M. 


THE HIGHWAY TO FAME. 


i every man this world doth hold 

Two selves are cast in that human mould. 
If he hearken but to the voice of one, 
Then heaven is his when his work is done; 
But if to the other his ear doth turn, 
Despair in his heart shall for ever burn. 


I and my other self one day 

Woke from sleep on the world’s highway. 
Women and men bore us companie, 

But never a child did I chance to see. 

I pitied young faces so pale and wan 

I saw in the crowd, as we hurried on. 

I pitied old faces, so eager they 

Lest they be last on the great highway. 
Another road we have mei at last— 

We paused a moment ere it we passed. 

Few turned their feet the strange road upon, 
Though the way was fair God’s sun shone on. 
The path was rough, but the hedges’ bloom 
Sent forth a sweet and a rare perfume. 

If the thorns wounded your naked feet, 

The birds’ songs were in your ear full sweet. 


422 The Irish Monthly. 


Did you close your eyes in black despair, 

You oped on the hills—and God was there. 

Did you weep with fear when the night came on, 
The face of Hope in the darkness shone. 

“ O stay,” I cried, “i for a moment stay — 

Till I pluck from the hedge a wild-rose spray. 
Hark, the sweet birds! For a moment stay— 
No song I hear on the world’s highway, 

But cries of women and “men alway.” 


My other self thus replied to me : 

"é Then the hill of Fame you will never see, 
Nor hear the songs so wondrous there ”— 
And I passed the road that I deemed so fair. 
Suspicion, envy, and jealousy, 

I oft in my neighbours’ eyes could see. 

Alas, in my heart the serpent grew— 

I smiled lest others should see it too. 

A woman staggered and falling cried 

As I paused a moment by her side : 

é Too late, too late! I am lost for aye, 

I have passed God’s road on the great highway. 
I have missed the treasure that lies before, 
And glimpse of Heaven I’ll see no more.” 

I laid my hand her cold head upon, 

But my other self in my ear said: “On! 
For those behind will help her through.” 

I step in her place, but that cry I knew 
Was the last she gave, ere she silent lay 
"Neath the cruel feet on the great highway. 


A cottage door, as we passed, stood wide, 

A mother sat with her babe inside, 

And her eyes beamed love as she kissed the child, 
That raised its arms in its sleep and smiled: 
In the fields that bordered the great highway 
Children dropped, as we passed, their play. 
‘I raised a bright guinea for them to see— 

A golden king-cup they held to me. 

A sapphire’s gleam from my finger fell— 
They gathered a bunch of the blue speedwell. 
A string of pearls I raised again— 

Laughing they turned to their daisy chain. 


The Highway to Fame. 423 


A youth and a maiden I next did see ; 

I cried in my heart, “ He will envy me.” 

He smiled as he kissed the white hand that lay 
In his, and I sighed on the great highway. 

Is it worth all I lose and I leave behind, 

That treasure I seek which I may not find ? 


I saw a man in my path, and he 
Stood still as we came, and he looked at me. 

Oh, sorrow’s home was that face divine! 

Oh, the infinite love as his eyes met mine! 

An oaken cross on his shoulders lay— 

I paused a moment then turned away, 

For my other self thus had cried to me: 

é "Tig but a phantom you chance to see. 

Look! Even now it has ceased to stay 

"Neath the hurrying feet on the great highway.”’ 


So I was first in the weary race, 

As, aged and worn, we toiled apace. 

Each man bowed low at my feet and came 
To crown me king on the Hill of Fame, 

And king of them all I reigned alone, 

Yet I shuddered oft on my golden throne. 
The ground had grown not earth nor stones, 
For the hill was raised of dead men’s bones. 
I fear my subject’s untiring praiso, 

For his hand the while with his dagger plays. 
My other self whispers: ‘‘O joy! for see, 
Men and women all worship thee, 

Thy flattered ear to their praise incline ; 
Endless glory and wealth are thine ; 

Such fame, such worship, no man hath known. 


Ah me, I sigh on my golden throne. 


Dora Sicerson. 


424 The Irish Monthly. 


KINDNESS. 


A LITERARY man once told me that he was lying sick in a 
very humble room some thirty or forty years ago in the east 
end of London. The people of the house were Irish and Catholic, 
and the poor seribbler was dying from want and broken-hearted- 
ness rather than from any of the individual diseases known to the 
faculty. A young priest’ was on his daily rounds, visiting the 
houses of the parish, looking after the children, after the sick, after 
the grown-up, after the negligent, after the erring. The good 
woman of the house told the priest of the poor young man that was 
sick in bed. The priest went to see him. He found one who from 
a life of carelessness and some error had become hardened, and 
from his poverty and neglect had become callous even against the 
dispensations of an overruling Providence. The priest spoke 
kindly and cordially, and sympathetically; but, while his words 
touched, they did not convert the sick man. At parting, the 
priest left a crown-piece on the pillow, promising to call again. In 
a few days he returned; the young man had got strong, and in 
some way mysteriously work had come to his door. The young 
man held steadily on, became a practical Catholic, after a time 
attained a competency, and gained no little share of literary fame. 
The young priest went on in his humble, unworldly way among 
lanes and tenements and garrets; but his humility could not hide 
his worth, and to-day more than one hemisphere knows that young 
priest—he is now Cardinal Manning. | 
One day as I was walking along a quiet road in a skirt of one 
of the Leinster counties, Í saw two children making their little - 
baby-houses by the way. They seemed to be brother and sister; 
the little girl might be about eight, and the little boy two or three 
years younger. I saw the little girl stepping aside for some pur- 
pose, and, without meaning it, overturning the little brother’s 
castle. He stood up, took a handful of mud and sand, and flung 
it directly into her face. She was standing some two yards or go 
from him. She wiped the clay from her eyes, and stepping quickly 
towards him, she opened out her hands, put them round his neck, 
and kissed him on the cheek. If both are living, they are now 
man and woman. Neither of them saw me. 





Kindness. 425 


An old man lived in a mud cabin near a cross of five roads. 
He had sworn informations against a neighbour. The police pro- 
secuted, the man was convicted, and sentenced to some months’ 
imprisonment. The old man fell sick ; he was unable to leave his 
bed, and it is scarcely fair to describe his loathsomeness. None of 
the neighbours would come near him. The police found him 
dying. The doctor declared him unable to be removed, and I was 
called to anoint him. When I arrived, there was a woman in 
attendance. I looked at the man; where his head lay on the pil- 
low was a hollow space about the size of the palm of a hand, for he 
could not stir the head or turn it, and in the hollow was a pool of 
water, the dribbling of the mouth. Evidently clean linen had 
been put on him; but fresh as it was, it began to be almost liter- 
ally alive—there is such a species of skin-disease. ‘“ I have washed 
him, and done my best, your reverence, but whatever you do, you 
cannot prevent them, you know.” She had the house cleaned up, 
she had a little fire down; she had some drinks warming for the 
invalid; she had everything necessary for me: and that woman 
was the wife of the man in prison ! 


These things bring to my recollection the beautiful story of the 
blind water-carrier, told by John Francis Maguire in his Life of 
Father Mathew. The poor woman carried water day by day to 
the doors of the rich in the city of Cork. The famine time came, 
and she found one morning a little baby lying on a door step, 
deserted. She asked Father Mathew’s advice, and he desired her 
to rear it. By-and-bye she got blind, and the child was grown 
strong enough to lead her by the hand through the streets. “Oh, 
my dear,” Father Mathew would say, “ how much grander before 
God and His saints is that poor blind water-carrier, led from door 
to door by the foundling child, than the Czar of all the Russias.” 


R. O’K. 


Vor. xvi. Nv. 206. 80 


426 


The Irish Monthl, 


DEAD—IN NEW YORK. 


((ALMLY she sleeps, while a smile still lingers 
On her pallid features as she lies at rest, 

With her rosary held in her toil-worn fingers, 
As her hands lie crossed on her tired breast. 


And the martyr’s ensign, aloft in splendour, 
Those hands, I doubt not, will one day bear, 
For she gave her life in youth’s springtime tender 
For her mother’s sake, and far from her care. 


Not many years since, a comely maiden, 

She left her home by Lough Swilly’s side; 
And sick and weary and sorrow-laden 

Was her loving heart on the day she‘died. 


And one earthly hope rose o’er every other 
Through all the years of her exile lone— 


-Just once in life to behold her mother, 


In her mountain cottage in Inishowen. 


Never fulfilled to our careless seeming— 
Yet, perhaps, not so, for the Sisters say, 

As they softly prayed in the ghostly gleaming 
Of a wintry dawn, where she dying lay, 


That ere the frail thread of life was ended, 
Her pale lips moved as in glad surprise, 

And she murmured ‘‘ Mother! ” with arms extended, 
And an eager light in her glassy eyes. 


_And I sometimes think that in that last hour 


As her spirit lingered on earth the while, 
She had one glimpse, by God's boundless power, 
Of her she loved in her own dear isle. 


MacpaLen Rocx. 





Saints and Sight-seeing at Annecy. 427 


SAINTS AND SIGHT-SEEING AT ANNECY. 


“ rps, your quaint old town!”’ said Jack, mockingly, as the 

train slowed into the little station at Annecy. Tall 
factory chimneys and long, grey, many-windowed stores were at 
one side—so tall and square and grey, that with the long blue 
columns of smoke rising from them, even the neighbouring 
mountains were almost hidden. Faintly, however, through the 
haze we could catch a glimpse of the Dents de Lafont and Mont 
‘Veyrier. 

It was certainly unreasonable; still I was disappointed. I 
searcely knew what I had expected. Even at Venice and 
Florence, as I ought to have remembered, the Gare and its 
surroundings are hopelessly commonplace. Then there was the 
inevitable Douane. I waited in the musty velvet-cushioned ’bus, 
while Jack swore at the natives in strong, terse English, and they 
replied with smiles, grimaces, and a volley of what he calls 
“ gibberish.” 

At last we start. Oh, such dreadfully modern streets and 
houses! I could almost fancy myself. back in England. Pre- 
sently we drive into the pretty tree-shaded courtyard of the Hotel 
d’Angleterre; there is a coolness about it very refreshing after our 
hot, dusty journey; very pleasing, too, is the smiling welcome 
accorded us by.a smartly-dressed Frenchwoman, who greets us as 
though we were old and dear friends. Not English that, at any 
rate. . 

After breakfast we started off to explore the town. Leaving 
the straight, intensely modern Rue Royale, we reached at last a 
dark medieval street. Gloomy arcades on both sides, under 
which shrill saleswomen cried their wares—carrots, wool, turnips, 
stockings, braces, baskets—everything, all mingled together in 
“© most admired confusion.” | 

Branching off from this street are several dark ways, made 
through or under the houses. Where do they lead to? Do they 
terminate in a cul-de-sac? Rather reluctantly we entered one, for 
the odours were distinctly unpleasant, and the chill darkness gave 
one a dead feeling. 


428 The Irish Monthly. 


After a few minutes we emerged into a bright sun-lit street, 
intersected by a canal. Following it, we arrived at the Place de 
V’Hotel de Ville—a really handsome building, but modern, 
glaringly, uncompromisingly modern. Before us stretched the 
blue-green waters of the lake, bordered on one side by the pretty 
gardens of the Paquier and the Champs de Mars, and circled round 
by graceful, many-coloured hills, with white villages and slim 
church spires rising beneath them. There in the distance lies 
Talloires, where there is an old Benedictine abbey, now used as a 
restaurant, and Menthon, where St. Bernard was born. There 
lived also his preceptor, St. Germain, in a hermitage perched 
almost on the summit of the Dents de Lafont. Centuries after his 
death his relics were removed from the nave and were placed by 
St. Francis de Sales under the high altar of the church, which the- 
saintly prelate had repaired and richly decorated in honour of the 
holy abbot. After preaching to a numerous audience and 
devoutly venerating the relics of the hermit of the eleventh 
century, the Bishop of the seventeenth century, feeling himself 
inspired by the same spirit of contemplation, the same love of 
solitude and silence, cried to those near him: “ Here, indeed, I 
should wish to rest! If it were pleasing to God, willingly would 
I leave the heat and burden of the day to our coadjutor, and in 
this retreat serve Christ and His Church with my rosary, my 
breviary, and my pen.” ‘Then opening a window from which he 
could see the lake and town of Annecy, and admiring the beauty 
of the surrounding country, he continued: “ What a splendid 
prospect! Here grand and beautiful thoughts would fall on the 
soul as abundantly as snow falls on the earth in winter.” 

At the opposite side of the Canal du Vassé is a fine church. 
Was it the Visitation ? 

“No!” replied an old woman whom I questioned, “it is the 
church and convent of the Nuns of St. Joseph ; but further on, in 
the Rue de la Providence, is the Berceau de la Visitation. Their 
new monastery and chapel are in the Rue Royale, and there, too, 
are the bodies of St. Francis and St. Jane de Chantal. Madame 
can see them ; they are enclosed in waxen effigies, life-size and 
life-like.” 

But first for the “Cradle.” Itis an ugly old house situated 
half way up a steep hill; it belongs to the Nuns of St. Joseph. 
One of them opened the door for us. ‘The ‘ Galerie’ is not shown 


\ 


Saints and Sight-seeing at Annecy “ 429 


uow, madame,” she told me. “ The Bishop does not permit it; 
but you car#see the chapel.” 

It is on the left of the entrance; very small, low-ceilinged, 
dark. 

“Yes, madame, this is the very chapel to which St. Francis 
brought St. Jane Frances de Chantal, Mdlle. de Favre, and Mdlle. 
de Bréchard, in June, 1610. There are their portraits, madame— 
one at each side of the altar. That of St. Francis is supposed 
to be wonderfully like him.” 

It was so dark I could scarcely see, but a stray sunbeam 
lighting up the gloom, I caught a glimpse of a bearded face 
smiling down on me, the blue eyes seeming to read one’s inmost . 
thoughts. “ What are you doing here?” they asked. “Is it 
devotion or curiosity P Are you on a pilgrimage to my shrine, 
or have you come to see the mountains and the lake ?—to study 
the people of this old-world town, to gratify your artistic tastes, or 
to try and attain a greater degree of Christian perfection by the 
contemplation of the scenes of my labours? A little of both, 
n° est-ce pas, Madame ?”’ 

With his grave, sweet expression, his rather full lips that seem 
inclined to take a humorous view of most things, and the slight 
soupcon of sarcasm in his curved brows, one could easily imagine 
how quickly he would understand ‘our mixed motives, and while 
he smiled at our follies, would yet feel a tender pity of sympathy 
for us. 

St. Jane Frances looks much sterner. One can easily fancy 
her passing over the prostrate body of her only son on her way to 
the cloister. : 

What a day must that have been in the fairest month of the 
year, when Franeig conducted his spiritual children to their long 
desired home. Surely Heaven smiled that day on those three 
devoted souls, entering so courageously on their new life of prayer 
and sacrifice. ‘‘ Voici, mes scours, le lieu de nos délices et de notre 
repos,” St. Jane Frances cries; and then they and their friends 
kneel before the altar, while their saintly Bishop repeats three 
times the Gloria Patri, and after a short exhortation, begs God’s 
blessing upon their enterprise. 

Very probably when the crowd of loving relatives, of devoted 
friends, of curious or careless spectators, had gone away, Francis 
lingered for a few parting words with his “dearest daughter.” 


430 The Irish Monthly. 


Mademoiselles de Favre and de Bréchard were doubtless “ talking 
it over ” as they stood at an upper window, watching” the people 
pass down the hill.* Many among them were near and dear to 
the two novices; but they had parted with them for ever, and as 
they caught the last glimmer of shimmering silk, heard the last 
faint ripple of laughter, they must have felt that their strange new 
life had indeed commenced. Perhaps they stole quietly down to 
the little chapel to renew their consecration to His service, and to 
knee] in silent prayer before His tabernacle, knowing where they 
could best quiet the first stirrings of their poor hearts, that felt a 
little restive on realizing the life of solitude and sacrifice to which 
they were being devoted. 

Meanwhile were the two holy founders talking of what they 
hoped their Institute would be? Before he gave them a definite 
rule, at various times Francis let them know his wishes. “ I wish 
you to lead the life of Martha and of Mary ”; he often tells them 
“to join works of charity to contemplation, not to remain 
cloistered but to go forth into the lanes and alleys to tend the sick, 
to help the poor, to pray beside the dying. United thus, the 
active and the contemplative will help instead of interfering with 
each other. While the Sisters work out their own sanctification, 
they will also help their neighbours to lead better lives by their 
examples, and by giving them assistance.” 

But the prejudices of the age were too powerful. Men and 
women, saints and sinners alike, cried out in horrror against such 
an innovation. ‘Nuns walk about the streets! Go into houses ! 
Dreadful idea! Unheard of and not to be tolerated.” So in the 
end Francis had to give in to that powerful ror populi which has 
crushed so many reformers and taken the hope and the heart’s 
blood out of martyrs and patriots. 

On the 30th October, 1612, the Nuns of the Visitation, then 
numbering eight professed Sisters and eight Novices, removed to a 
larger house in the city, and it was there, and not at the little 
maison de la Perriere (as it was then called), that Francis an- 
nounced to St. de Chantal his final renunciation of his original 
design. 

“I am called the Founder of the Visitation. Is there any- 


thing less reasonable? I have done what I did not wish to do, 


* This is not written by a Nun.—£d. J. Y. 





Saints and Sight-seeing at Annecy. 45[ 


and what I wished to do I have left undone.” Surely no words. 
are sadder or more pathetic. What did she feel when she heard 
them? Was she capable of the same sublime renunciation? or 
did she struggle and weep vain tears over the destruction of her 
life’s purpose? “Closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls,’” 
did her soul long for the fuller, more active existence she had. 
hoped to lead? Probably she completely forgot her own disap- 
pointment, having resolved to: devote her life to God’s service in 
whatever manner God chose to have that service, and now she 
accepted the decision of her saintly guide as the expression of God’s. 
will in her regard, and endeavoured to console and sympathise 
with him. Not that he would have required much consolation ; 
the sacrifice once made, he was not one to look back and waste. 
time in futile regrets, but rather at once to set about modelling the 
Order on its new lines. | 

Leaving the Berceau, we walked through narrow lanes and 
dark arcaded streets until we reached a sun-lit square, and saw 
towering over us the gloomy church of Notre Dame de Liesse. It 
was founded in the twelfth century, and was so often restored 
since that probably very little of the original edifice remains; but 
as if is its associations which are so interesting, the periods at 
which each individual door, window, or nave was added, matters 
but little, except to an antiquarian. 

In 1567 the Holy Winding Sheet was brought here from 
Chambéry by Anne d’Este, the wife of James of Savoy. Among 
other pilgrims who came to venerate this holy relic, Madame de 
Boissy drove in from the Chateau de Sales, near Thorens, about 
eight miles from Annecy. While kneeling in reverent contempla- 
tion of the marks made by the Wounds of her Redeemer, she felt 
her heart filled with prophetic joy and offered to Him her unborn 
child, promising to dedicate him to God from his birth. A few 
months later Francis was born on the 21st August, at the 
Chateau de Sales, in a small room dedicated to St. Francis of 

Many years later, in this same church of Notre Dame, while 
Francis was preaching to a numerous congregation, a white dove 
descended from Heaven and rested on his shoulder. Both these 
events are commemorated on white marble tablets hung on the 
walls. 

We went on to the Cathedral, which is only a few steps further 


432 The Irish Monthly. 


on. It was very dark and cold inside, notwithstanding the intense 
heat and the glow of light outside. What must it be in winter, 
when one shivers in it with the thermometer standing at 90° P 

Near the door is a very old confessional, hacked and cut to 
pisces in places, perhaps by devout pilgrims. Is it the one im 
which Francis de Sales listened to so many tales of sin and 
sorrow, consoling and comforting so many broken-hearted, world- 
weary souls? Probably. We krow that he selected the con- 
fessional nearest the entrance, in order that the halt, the blind, and 
the infirm might find him without difficulty. | 

And here is the pulpit from which he preached his first sermon 
while still only a subdeacon, at the express wish of the Bishop of 
Geneva, Monseigneur de Granier. He prepared it for Corpus 
Christi, but Pére Fodiri—a famous preacher of the Order of 
Cordeliers—arriving at Annecy, Francis entreated him to give 
the people the consolation of hearing him. 

Consequently Francis did not preach until the Octave. His 
sermon was perfectly prepared: he had given mifch time and 
study to its composition ; but when the hour came, he was seized 
with a fit of nervousness, trembled in all his limbs, and had 
scarcely strength to ascend the pulpit. There a numerous crowd 
were eagerly awaiting him. Recommending himself to God in a 
short and fervent prayer, he became at once calm, and forgetting 
everything but the sublime subject he had selected—the Blessed 
' Eucharist—he electrified his audience by the strength and fervour 
of his language and the clearness and grace of his ideas. Marty 
shed tears, and, above all, his good mother, who felt that her hopes 
‘were indeed realized, and that her son was likely to become a guide 
and a helper to many. Not long after—on the 18th December, 
1593—he was ordained priest by Monseigneur de Granier, and 
five years subsequently was elected his coadjutor. Nor was he 
long to enjoy the counsels and guidance of the saintly old man, 
whose death he heard of when returning from Paris only four 
years later. 

He hastened home at once, and after making a Retreat of 
several days at the Chateau de Sales, he was consecrated Bishop in 
the little parish church of Thorens. After a few more days spent 
in prayer and recollection, he entered Annecy and formally took 
possession of the See of Geneva. 

Two years later, while preaching the Lenten Sermons at 


Saints and Sight-seeing at Annecy. 433 


Dijon, he noticed amongst his numerous audience a lady who, 
while listening to his words with the greatest attention, earnestly 
studied his appearance. She was dressed in deep mouraing ; tall 
and stately, with a pale, calm face, and a somewhat austere 
«xpression. He immediately recognized her as the widow whom 
he had seen in a vision a few months previously when God had 
revealed to him that he and she would be the founders of a new 
religious order. Anxious to know her name, he asked one of his 
most attentive auditors, Andrew Frémiot. ‘She is my sister, 
Madame de Chantal,” he replied. The Bishop invited them to 
ine with him, and from their first meeting the two saints under- 
stood each other perfectly. St. Jane Frances also had a vision a 
year previously, in which she had seen the holy prelate, and God 
had made known to her that he was to be her spiritual guide. 

But she had yet six long years to wait before she entered, 
under his guidance, on the life for which God had destined her. 
During those years she lived with her father-in-law, the Baron de 
Chantal, ah imperious, disagreeable, sinful old man, in whose 
house she led a life of constant self-denial; contriving even in 
those difficult circumstances to preserve as constant a union with 
her Saviour as afterwards when protected from worldly cares and 
anxieties by the sheltering walls of a convent. 

We have gained by this long probation. She was often for 
months unable to commune with her saintly guide. During these 
long absences he wrote her those beautiful letters which seem 
suited to the needs of every soul; from the perusal of which the 
most different characters can draw support and guidance. They 
are so simple, so natural, so affectionate; and at the same time 
breathe a spirit of sublime sanctity, of thorough self-renunciation, 
of generous, ardent love of God, with complete confidence in Him, 
and a perfect conformity to His adorable Will. 

Unfortunately Jane destroyed her own letters to the Arch- 
bishop. After his death, in looking over his papers, she dis- 
covered them, carefully arranged, and with marginal notes added 
by him. She immediately threw them into the fire, utterly 
regardless of the value to posterity of such an interesting record 
of spiritual experience. 

* * * * * 

“ Are you going to stay here for ever? ” Jack’s voice broke in 

upon my reverie. “It is nearly five o'clock. You have been 


434 | The Irish Monthly. 


dreaming here for hours, while I have been all round the town, 
and I believe you did not know I had left you. Come for a row 
on the lake, and leave the rest of the churches for to-morrow. 
Surely you have had quite enough of your Saint for one day. He 
is very uninteresting, I think. There are some really curious old 
houses and gateways in some of the streets, and such queer old 
signboards over the shops. and their names. ‘Le Lion rouge de 
Savoie, ‘ Au tigre jaune,’ ‘ Le chien au yeur bleus, &. Faney 
buying your cigars or hairpins from yellow tigers and blue-eyed 
dogs.” | 

Well, our sight-seeing was over for that day. The row on the 
lake was very pleasant in the cool of the evening—the setting sun 
throwing a mystic golden light over the translucent waters, fading 
gradually into softer shades, until at last it disappeared, leaving 
the clear twilight of a cloudless night. Round us the hills grew 
darker and darker, seeming to come nearer and nearer, until at 
last we felt completely isolated from the rest of the world. The 
lights in the town gleamed and twinkled invitingly; for the sense 
of still solitude á deux was becoming unbearable. Gladly we 
landed at the Embarcadeére. 

é“ How much P.” Jack asked the old woman who hired out the 
boats—the same, by-the-way, who had pointed out to me the 
Church of St. Joseph in the morning. 

“One franc; twenty-five centimes,” she answered. As we had 
been out for two hours, it was absurdly little. 

Slowly sauntering through the dimly-lighted streets, we passed 
a really quaint old church. Outside it looked delightfully 
medieval, the moonlight idealizing its rugged outlines, hiding 
the wear and tear of centuries, and revealing only what was most 
beautiful. 

I insisted on entering. It was quite dark, save where the red 
lamp of the sanctuary gleamed star-like in the distance, and a few 
candles burned dimly before a sacred image. A devotional church 
then, whatever it might be by daylight, yet perhaps too dream- 
like for true piety—one in which “the world forgetting, by the 
world forgot,” a visionary might indulge in a half sensuous 
devotion—earth’s cares and troubles seeming so far away, a 
mystical Heaven so near. 

Falling into a reverie, I forgot the present and conjured up 
scenes from the past. I was no longer in an empty church: it was 


Saints and Sight-seeing at Anncey. 435 


filled with an oddly-attired congregation ; men in hose and doublet, 
with clanking swords and long curling locks; women in coif and 
stomacher, with curious head gear completely covering their hair ; 
peasants dressed very much as they still are in some of the Swiss 
Cantons. The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass is being offered at a 
brilliantly-lit altar; solemnly peal the deep notes of the organ, 
gradually growing softer and lower, until at last they die away, 
and nought is heard but the tinkle of the little bell, as the priest 
turns round with the Sacred Host. ‘ Domine, non sum dignus,”’ - 
and the faithful approach the Communion rails. Amongst them is 
a fair, blue-eyed boy, who, devoutly kneeling before the altar for 
the first time, receives his Lord. One can fancy the ecstatic Joy 
which then filled the soul of Francis—already at ten years of age 
a child-saint, one who had never lost—who never was to lose—his 
baptismal innocence; but was to pass through life uncontami- 
nated by the world, unscathed through the fires of temptations 
and trials. 

In this very church it was that it pleased our Lord in after 
-years to give a signal manifestation of His love for His chosen 
servant. The face of the saint while preaching became trans- 
figured, shining with a heavenly light, while burning words fell 
from his lips, touching the hardest hearts, and all recognised f the 
Seer and Frophet even in his own m country. 

2 

“I thought you were going | to stay here for two or three 
minutes only,” a voice interrupts my dream. “ Might I venture to 
remark that we have not dined? It is past eight, and I am 
tremendously hungry.” 

It was Jack, of course—Jack, matter-of-fact as usual, the 
genius of commonplace, never allowing himself to be whirled off 
into dreams or reveries, and never, no never, forgetting his dinner. 

I was wakened early the following morning by the chiming of 
the bells of the Visitation. It was only a few steps from the hotel 
to the church. Mass was commencing as I entered, and, of course, 
there was the usual difficulty about chairs. However, an old 
woman brought me two froma dark corner. I placed them in 
front of the side altar where reposes the body of St. Jane Frances 
de Chantal. The waxen figure is clothed in the garment of a 
Nun of the Visitation, and lies peacefully with clasped hands and 
upturned eyes. Rather ghastly I thought her. 


436 The Irish HMouthly. 


After Mass I asked the Sacristan to show me the body of 8t. 
Francis, but he would not permit me to go up the steps to see if, 
where it rests behind the high altar. I was able to get only a 
glimpse of it through the grating in the sacristy. 

In 1622 Francis died at Lyons, on the Feast of the Holy 
Innocents, after having endured a veritable martyrdom, the doctors 
endeavouring by the most cruel means to rouse him from the 
stupor into which he was falling ; but although he felt all the pain 
of the red-hot irons applied to his head and the back of his neck, 
they only helped to accelerate his death. Constant to his ia- 
variable rule of never asking for anything, never refusing any- 
thing, he let them do as they would with him, and never rebelled 
against their terrible remedies. 

He received Extreme Unction, but was unable to receive the 
Viaticum. As long as he could speak, he chanted the Psalms, 
and in the midst of the most intense torture entoned the Te Deum. 
His last words were: “77 fait tard, et le jour est déjd bien 
abaiesé”’ ; then pronouncing the Holy Name of Jesus, he lost 
consciousness and died shortly afterwards. 

His body was removed to Annecy and given to his daughters. 
of the Visitation, who placed it in their church. There it was 
preserved until the French Revolution, when it was hidden away to 
save it, from desecration. Peace once more restored, the present 
“ church and monastery of the Visitation were built, mainly through 
the assistance given by Charles Felix, and his queen, Marie 
Christine. It was consecrated in 1826, and then the remains of 
St. Francis and St. de Chantal were deposited here. It is a 
handsome church in the Italian style, rather small, but perfect in 
every detail. 

Outside I was attacked by two or three picturesque old beggar- 
men, resembling those that beset strangers at all the landing 
places in Venice. My last distinct recollection of Annecy is of 
two or three of these old fellows standing on the platform, hat in 
hand, courtly and dignified, invoking blessings on us as the train 
slowly crept out of the station, and we sped on our way to 
Geneva. 


L. M. Kenny. 








Notes on New Books. 437 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. We do not remember hearing before of the firm of Hutchinson 
and Company, 25 Paternoster Square, who are the publishers of an 
extremely attractive series of books called “ The Idle Hour Series, ' 
each volume containing a set of stories by R. E. Francillon, Georg- 
Manville Fenn, and other popular novelists. The form and type are 
the most convenient and most readable that could be chosen, and a 
pleasant frontispiece faces the title-page. ‘‘The Idle Hour Series” leads 
off very happily with “The Haunted Organist of Hurly Burly, and 
other Stories,” by Rosa Mulholland, author of ‘‘ Marcella Grace,” “A 
Fair Emigrant,” ‘The Wild Birds of Killeevy,” etc. etc. Two of 
the previous works thus named on the title-page are issued by the 
neighbouring firm of Kegan Paul, Trench and Co., at 1 Paternoster 
Square ; but this newest addition to the long catalogue of Miss 
Mulholland’s works bears more affinity to her ‘“ Eldergowan and 
Other Stories,” published by Marcus Ward and Company. Even 
that volume had much less variety than the present series of tales. 
which are ten in number, and are pretty equal as regards length, thu 
nine ‘other stories” being ‘‘ The Country Cousin,” “ The Hungry 
Death,” “A Strange Love Story,” “The Ghost at the Rath,” 
é“ Krescenz,” “ The Signor John,” “The Fit of Ailsie’s Shoe,” 
‘A Will o’ the Wisp,” and “The Ghost of Wildwood Chase.” These 
names will warn the ingenious reader that in the collection before ux 
the author of “ Hester’s History” has not catered merely for those 
youthful lovers of fiction whom she has so often delighted with her 
"“ Puck and Blossom,” her “ Four Little Mischiefs,” and her ‘ Little 
Flower Seekers.” Indeed it would be hard to find anywhere more 
exquisite samples of the characteristic charms of her style than in 
these slight and dainty sketches, whether the scene be laid in Ireland 
or Italy. There is very great variety of theme and spirit. The first 
two are a little too weird for some tastes, and perhaps the place of 
honour ought rather to have been given to “ The Country Cousin” or 
the ‘Strange Love Story.” But, in spite of the sunny, idyllic grace 
of “The Signor John,” it is a comfort that the most successful of all 
are the two which have a distinctively Irish accent—‘‘ The Hungry 
Death ” with its wholesome pathos, and the winsome humour of “ The 
Fit of Ailsie’s Shoe.” 


2. “Thomas Davis: the Memoirs of an Irish Patriot, 1840—1846,”’ 
By Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, K.C.M.G. (London: Kegan, Paul, 
Trench, Trubner & Co., 1890). A large octavo of four hundred pages 


438 The Irish Monthly. 


- on Davis by Duffy must be the literary event of the season for Irish- 
men at home and abroad. No doubt the interest would have been 
still greater if the Editor of Zhe Nation had not already given the 
world two much larger volumes, one of which at least had anticipated 
a good many of the personal revelations that might be expected from 
him as Davis’s biographer. Occasionally Sir C. G. Duffy has felt this 
so far as to be obliged to repeat his previous treatment of certain parts of 
his subject ; but there remained plenty of incidents and documents to 
give originality and freshness to this first adequate account of a famous 
Irishman who is already nearly fifty years dead. When he lay dying, 
though no one guessed that the end was near—one of his young friends, 
who is amongst us still, uttered in jest what has proved a prophecy. 
‘“Q.-G. D.” writes to him two or three days before the last: “John 
O’Hagan says you have an opportunity of rivalling Mirabeau by dying 
at this minute; but he begs you won’t be tempted by the inviting 
opportunity.” As a fact, he died at the very moment that was best 
for his fame, when men of very different views could unite in cherish- 
ing his memory and pointing to his example. The closest ally of his 
brief but crowded manhood has in this fine volume done his last duty 
to his friend, showing that his feelings have not changed since, forty 
five years ago, he made his ballad of ‘‘The Irish Chiefs”? culminate 

.in the prayer, ‘‘ Oh, to have lived as Davis lived!” 

3. ““An Essay contributing to a Philosophy of Literature. By 
Brother Azarias, of the Brothers of the Christian Schools.” (New York: 
P. O'Shea). This is the sixth edition of a work published sixteen years 
ago. Its author is an Irishman labouring in the United States among 
those who are best known as French Christian Brothers. He has done 
a great deal for American Catholic Literature, but the present volume 
seems to us the most generally useful. It applies Catholic feelings 
and principles to a very wide and necessarily superficial survey of the 
literatures of many countries from the earliest dawn of literature to 
the present time. Books about books are the fashion of the day ; and 
it is well to have such subjects treated in the spirit rather of Ozanam 
thanofTaine. In our “ necessarily superficial survey ” we have noticed 
one oversight. Brother Azarias very justly places “that trumpet-blast 
of chivalric action, the Chanson de Roland, among the most ancient, the 
most beautiful, and the most artistically complete of all the cyclic 
poems that have been handed down.” As a Catholic Irishman, he 
ought to have claimed for a Catholic Irishman—Mr. Justice O’ Hagan— 
the distinction of having enriched English literature with so perfect a 
metrical version of this great mediseval epic as enables us to appreciate 
the praises bestowed upon it in this excellent ‘‘ Essay towards a 
Philosophy of literature.” 


' Notes on New Books. 439 


4. ‘‘ Aids to correct and effective Elocution, with selected readings 
and recitations for practice,” by Eleanor O'Grady (New York, 
Cincinnati, Chicago: Benziger Brothers) has, it seems, circulated for 
many years in manuscript among the compiler’s numerous pupils. A 
good many of the rules for gesture and delivery read very funnily, 
but for all that they may be very useful in practice. There is a great 
deal of freshness and novelty in—let us give her the benefit of a | 
doubt—2fiss O’Grady’s illustrative extracts. With a view to a second 
edition, we record our vote against “The Heliotrope” as stupid and 


unsuitable. , 


5. The same Publishers have sent us ‘‘ The Leper Queen,” a story 
of the thirteenth century, slight but prettily done. Father Damien in 
heaven is, we suspect, partly responsible for it, and also for a very 
long and beautiful poem in the June Catholic World, in the metre 
which most of us associate with Longfellow’s Evangeline. 


6. An extremely interesting and an extremely edifying book is 
“Father Perry, F.R.S., the Jesuit Astronomer: a sketch of his Life, 
Work, and Death.” By Aloysius L. Cortie, 8.J. (London : Catholic 
Truth Society). Father Cortie has put the simple facts together 
admirably, and has given the unscientific reader the means of 
appreciating Father Perry’s work, and this with a clearness and 
simplicity which could only be secured by a very thorough-.knowledge 
of the subject in all ‘its bearings. The personal traits of Father 
Perry’s character are touchingly edifying, especially the details of his 
death, none the less interesting for our readers on account of the Irish 
names of the chief assistants thereat, Brother Rooney, 8.J., and Dr. 
McSwiney, ‘‘an old Clongowes boy.” An excellent portrait in front, 
and eight illustrations scattered through the 120 pages, and the price 
only one shilling. 


7. ‘Plain Sermons on the Fundamental Truths of the Catholic 
Church” by the Rev. R. D. Browne (London: Burns and Oates), bears 
the Mshil Obstat of an Oblate of St. Charles. These sixty eight 
sermons are for the most part very short, sometimes only a page or 
two, Rke the Five-minute Sermons of the New York Paulist Fathers ; 
but Father Browne aims at giving a good deal of theological instruc- 
tion. We do not think he has been very successful. Some of the 
minute details about justice [and other subjects ‘are hardly judicious 
when given so crudely. One small point of another sort is that the 
Jesuit author{of Christian and Religious Perfection is confounded at 
page 309 with our recently canonised laybrother, St. Alphonsus 
Rodriguez. 


440 The Irish Monthly. 


8. A Visitandine of Baltimore has translated, and the Benzigers 
have published in a fine octavo of four hundred pages, Bougaud's 
excellent Life of Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. ‘An Ossory 
Priest”” has composed, and James Duffy and Company have pub- 
lished, ‘‘ The Life of St. John the Baptist,” in which all the circum- 
stances of the career of the Precursor are carefully studied by an 
enthusiastic client of the Saint. . | 


9. Father William B. Morris of the London Oratory has for many 
years devoted himself to the study of all that concerns the life of the 
Apostle of Ireland. His ‘‘ Life of St. Patrick” has reached a fourth 
edition, which is by no means a mere reissue of former editions, but 
contains the substance of many disquisitions contributed by the author 
to The Dublin Review and The Irish Ecclessastseal Record on some con- 
troverted points in the history of St. Patrick. The publishers have 
brought out this new edition with perfect taste. 


10. Mr. R. Washbourne, 18 Paternoster Row, London, has pub- 
lished the first English edition of Father Jenkin’s answer to the 
question : Should Christsantty laven Education? The essay has gone 
through four editions in the United States. The Catholic Truth 
Society has issued a fresh number of the excellent penny series of 
meditations by Father Richard Clarke, 8.J., as well as a biographical 
sketch of the Ven. Oliver Plunket, Archbishop of Armagh, and a 
story full of romance and conversions, by Miss H. M. Lushington, 
called ‘‘ Helen Forsyth, or a Shadowed Life.” 


11. Two extremely interesting papers by Dr. Thomas More Mad- 
den have been reprinted from medical journals—one on -Schwalbach 
as a health-resort, and the other against Hypnotism and two other 
medical fads which are shown to have not even novelty to recommend 
them. The son of Dr. R. R. Madden copies his father in linking 
literary studies with the practice of the healing art; but his writings 
are confined to more strictly professional subjects than those which 
engaged the author of “ Lives of the United Irishmen.”’ 





\ 


Items about Irish Men and: Women. 441. 


ITEMS ABOUT IRISH MEN AND WOMEN.* 


Mr. William Woodlock. Lady Margaret Domville. Charles 
Kickham’s Hostess. The Betrothed of Thomas Davis. 


I. The following very simple lines have been sent for publica- 
tion, not for their own sake certainly, but for the sake of some 
circumstances connected with them. One day, five years ago, one 
of the divisional magistrates of Dublin had shown his usual zeal 
and kindness in securing a convent home for two little girls in 
whom the present writer was interested. While making the legal 
arrangements about the matter, if chanced to transpire that the 
day on which this good deed was wrought was the ninth birth-day 
of the magistrate’s own beloved child, who had just passed through 
a very serious illness. As a little act of thanksgiving, this score 
of rhymes was dropped into his letter-box in the course of the 
afternoon :— 


“ Frances, your ninth birthday has come 
Within your happy earthly home, 
Though recently you almost strove 
To spend it in the Home above. 

Thank God, you still must labour here 
For many a holy, happy year, ' 
Before you’ve earned your crown on high. 
May you, as swift the years glide by, 

¢ Through childhood, girlhood, womanhood, 
Be always bright and pure and good ! 


“é Yet all those wishes I might spare, 
For stronger even than mother’s prayer 
To win you every grace you need 
Is your fond father’s kindly deed. 

On this ninth birthday of your life 
He from a world of sin and strife 
Has saved two little girls like you. 
Oh, may their grateful angels strew 
The best of blessings on your way 
Until your ninety-ninth birthday ! ”” 


The good man here referred to was Mr. William Woodloock, 
who has just died on the 12th of June, aged 58 years. He was a 


* Continued from page 103 of this volume. 
Vow. xnu. No. 206. 81 





——— ——unm — —R. am 


442. The Irwh Monthly. 


member of a well-known Dublin family, represented at present by 
the Bishop of Ardagh and Clonmacnoise. He was a very distin- 
guished pupil of the Jesuits at Friburg, and afterwards a gold 
medallist at Trinity College, Dublin. He was called to the Bar, 
Trinity Term, 1855. His professional brethren had the highest 
respect for the solidity and breadth of his legal attainments; and, 
outside the groove of his duties as a barrister, he-had a cultivated 
literary taste, which he inherited from his father. Of the literary 
leanings of each of them we may mention an instance that came 
under our notice, though of a trivial nature. The elder Mr. 
Woodlock was the “ W. W.” who at page 232 of our fifth volume 
(March, 1877) translated admirably Filicaja’s famous sonnet on 
Divine Providence ; and the subject of the present note was once 
before mentioned in our pages in a very unlikely context but in 
excellent company, among the distinguished authors of “ Dublin 
Acrostios”’ (Dublin: Hodges and Figgis). At page 359 of our 
fifteenth volume (July, 1887) the curious revelation was for the 
first time made as to the partnership in that brilliant little quarto 
of such grave and learned men as Baron Fitzgerald, Lord Justice 
Fitzgibbon, Judge O’Hagan, and even Dr. Russell of Maynooth. 
Among the junior barristers admitted into the conclave was Mr. 

William Woodlock, whose solitary contribution is one of the 
happiest in the volume.* 

Mr. Woodlock’s literary and legal skill would have qualified 
him to make some useful contributions to the literature of his 
profession. He was one of those unaffectedly modegt men who 
need a certain degree of external compulsion to make them con- 
scious of their own capabilities. It was characteristic of his serious, 
religious mind that among his manuscripts has been found an un- 
finished translation of a rather large Spanish treatise on the 
method of demonstrating the truth of the Christian religion to a 
young man of the world. One of his colleagues, not of the same 
faith, inquiring about his condition one day during his last brief 
illness, joined to his expression of sympathy the emphatic 
remark: “ He was always a perfect Christian.” R. I. P. 


II. In the preceding notice we have explained a signature 
which occurred only once in our pages. The initials “ M. St. L. 


*The late Mr. Robert Reeves, Q.C. furnished us with a key to the entire 
collection, which we must soon turn to account. 











I 
Items about Irish Men and Women. ' 448. 


D.” appeared in a still earlier volume of the Magazine, represent- 
ing one whose death has just been announced, Lady Margaret 
Domville. Lady Margaret St. Laurence was a daughter of the 
third Earl of Howth, and married Sir Charles Domville, who died 
several years before her. She was a fervent Catholic. Her Life of 
Lamartine, published somewhat recently, is an excellent piece of 
literary workmanship and an extremely interesting biography. 


IT. A still slighter link connects with our Magazine one 
whose death has recently occurred under sensationally distressing 
circumstances. ‘ A few more relics of Charles Kickham” (Irisu 
MonTHLY, vol. 16, p. 136) ended with a very minute, simple, and 
pathetic account of his death, given by Mrs. O’Connor, with whom 
he lived during his last years, in a letter to the late Miss Ellen 
O'Leary. This is the Mrs. O'Connor who, with four of her five 
children, was poisoned at Seapoint, near Kingstown, on June 30, by 
eating mussels which the children had gathered in a pond hard by. 
All the children were girls, the eldest, Annie, being thirteen years 
old ; then Eily, whose eleventh birthday would have been cele- 
brated on the following Sunday ; Moya, nine years old; Kathleen, 
seven, and Nora, just five. Of these only Moya is left to the 
bereaved father. Ten minutes after the arrival of the priest Annie, 
the eldest, died; and in five minutes more Mrs. O’Connor, who 
had been attending to her poor children to the last moment, col- 
lapsed suddenly and died, followed soon by two more of her 
children ; but the fourth of the little sufferers did not die till the 
next morning. An immense funeral procession accompanied the 
three hearses which bore the five coffins to Glasnevin, where public 
sympathy will raise a fitting memorial over these graves of a 
household. 


IV. The “Special” who described his visit to the grave of 
Thomas Davis’s Betrothed in The Evening Telegraph of June 21, 
1890, seems not to enjoy the advantage of being among our con- 
stant readers ; else he would not have spoken of Annie Hutton as 
a revelation reserved for Sir C. G. Duffy’s recent biography of his 
most famous friend. Among the many collections, large and 
small, of letters by interesting Irishmen and others which the 
kindness of many benefactors has made this Magazine the first 
medium of publishing, one of the most valuable was a batch of the 
letters of Thomas Davis to John Edward Pigot, printed in two 


444 The Irish ‘Monthly. 


instalments in our sixteenth volume at page 261, and again at page 
335. At the latter page will be found the story of Annie Hutton, 
and an account of a pilgrimage to her grave behind the Whitworth 
Hospital in Drumocondra—a pilgrimage made exactly two years 
before that of the Telegraph Special. Sir OC. G. Duffy, of course, 
adds much to what we were able to publish in June, 1888, 
especially a charming letter of the promessa sposa which Davis 
preserved with care, and. which we must quote. The first hint on 
the subject Duffy extracts from the letter to John Pigot, which 
was printed in full in this Magazine (vol. 16, p. 3388). It is there 
dated, oddly enough, “Monday, I think, 16th September, ’44.”’ 
One would imagine that Davis was sure of the day of the week, 
but not of the day of the month. However, that J think seems to 
have crept in by a blunder, being merely an annotation made in 
preparing the letters for the printer, when a doubt arose as to 
whether Davis had written “ 16th.” This date is a mistake, for 
Pigot’s answer is dated “September 13.” Davis says to him: 
“ You have Hibernicised the Huttons so much that they have 
borrowed a lot of my collection of Irish airs, and the lady whose 
name you write so flippantly sings ‘The Bonny Cuckoo.’ Are 
you very vain for all this?” But Pigot turns the tables on his 
correspondent. ‘ You are amusing about the Huttons, but your 
coquetry is all fair when you can get that graceful wild girl to sng 
‘Bonny Cuckoo’ and ‘ Annie Dear’ for you. *Tis very pleasant, 
too, to have collections of music-books for such disinterested 
proselytism.” But his patriotism had not improved his chances of 
professional success; and the uncertainty of his future, now that 
he had another to think of—or wished to have another to think of 
—was the cause of the bad spirits that he confesses to in writing 
to David Owen Maddyn as late as July 31, 1845. “I have been 
for some time, and am likely to continue for a while, in a state of 
feverish anxiety on a subject purely personal, and which I hope I 
may yet be able to talk of to you.” Yet it was of this period that 
Judge O’Hagan writes:—‘ All who remember him during that 
time can testify to the wonderful change he underwent even in 
appearance. His form dilated, his eyes got a new fire, his step 
was firmer, and the look of a proud purpose sat on him.” And 
about this time “ Annie dear” wrote this letter to her betrothed :— 


“How shall I tell you how happy I was to get your dear, dear letter, for 
which I love you twenty times better than before, for now you are treating me 





‘ 


‘ 


Items about Irish Men and Women. 445 


with confidence, not like a child whom it pleases you to play with. Do you know 


that waa (but it is nearly gone) the one fear I had, that you would think of me as 
a plaything, more than as a friend ; but I don’t think you will since last night- 
There now, dearest, you have all that ison my mind. I would have told you the 
last day you were here, only I did not know exactly how to say it, and thought it 
might be said better in a letter. Why do you say you wish I was oftener kind to 
you? And why do you think me cold sometimes P—indeed, I don’t intend it, 
love. You say you are ‘ lasy,’—I don’t believe it; ‘desultory,’—I won’t believe 
it ; ‘of selfish habits,’—I can’t believe it ;—there now, ‘thim’s my sintiments!’ as 
our friend Dr. 8. would say. I'll tell you what, you must not write such nice 
letters to me, because it makes me slightly insane, as you may perceive. Oh! ] 
forgot I intended to begin this with a profound scolding ; I am really very angry 
with you for writing my unworthy name in that beautiful book of ‘ Melodies." 
Indeed, you must not, dearest, be giving me ao many books; besides, 1 like better 
to have them when they are yours. | 

“ [had such a lovely drive all round Howth yesterday, and at the most beauti- 
ful part was alone, which I was very sorry for; I like to have some one to enjoy 
beauty with me, not to talk about it, but just quietly to enjoy. It was very 
beautiful, Killiney all brilliant in the sunlight, with white-sailed boats dancing 
merrily over the water, and then the Dublin and Wicklow Mountains behind 
frowning blachly, as if jealous that they had no sun, and Bray Head, the Grey 
Stones and Wicklow Head stretching out farther and still farther away. And 
there wasn’t a sound to be heard—so different from the other busy side of Howth 
that we had just come from. I had a pleasant companion in the ‘ German 
Anthology ’ [Clarence Mangan’s Translations].’’ 


On the 15th of September, in that same year, 1845, Thomas 
Davis died after a short illness, and was buried in Mount Jerome. 
Mrs. Hutton hurried her poor child abroad, hoping that foreign 
travel might make the shock less grievous; so that of her, too, as 
of the betrothed of Robert Emmet, Moore might have sung :— 


“é She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps.”’ 


She did not survive him long. During the interval one of the 
alleviations of her bereavement was a task undertaken evidently 
out of love for his memory and because it was congenial to his 
spinit—the translation of “ The Embassy to Ireland of Rinuocini,”’ 
the famous papal Nuncio of the time of Owen Roe O’Neill. But 
she had not strength to finish the work, which was completed and 
published by her mother many years later in a massive octavo. A 
letter to a friend settles, amongst other points, the date of his 
actual engagement :— 


“In the midst of all my sorrow the thought flashes through me, What pride, 
what glory to have been the chosen one of such a heart! Oh, if I were to live 
through an eternity of grief, I would not give up that short month of happinesss, 


446 The Irish Monthly. 


that little time of communion with all that was most pure, most holy om 
earth. . . . I try to think of all he has been spared ; no woman's love could 
have saved him from bitter disappointment ; no care of mine could have prevented 
his glorious spirit being bruised, crushed by the unworthiness of those he had to 
deal with. . . . No ideal I could form could be brighter, purer than he 
was. . . , One little short month it was, and yet a whole existence of love,. 
which I pray will purify and raise my whole soul till it be worthy to join that 
bright one gone before.’” 


Sir Charles Duffy quotes a friend of hers as saying “ She faded 
away from the hour of his death.” She died on the 7th of 
June, 1853. Her tombstone in St. George’s Cemetery, behind the 
Whitworth Hospital, adds that she was then 28 years old; and 
these dates tell us how young she was during that summer month 
when she was the Betrothed of Thomas Davis. 


A PROOF-READER’S ACT OF CONTRITION. 


Lorp Macautay has somewhere held up to contempt some 
wretch who confounded an aphorism with an apophthegm. Our 
ideas on the difference between these two are so lamentably hazy 
that we do not venture to determine whether the following 
statement is an aphorism or an apophthegm or neither, but, such 
as it is, it was made in these pages some years ago. “ As the 
owner’s eye maketh the ox fat, even so the author’s eye maketh the 
proof-sheet correct.” The author, reading over his article, at once 
detects any epithet that is not what it ought to be, and concludes 
that there is a misprint which he proceeds to investigate; but any 
other reader except the author is less shocked with a slight incon- 
gruity, says in his mind, “ Rather poor, that, but good enough for 
So-and-so ”—and so passes on, leaving the blunder unrectified. 
The only plan for ensuring a fair immunity from blunders is to 
insist on having every page corrected in type, at least once, by the 
writer thereof. 

The writer of a paper, which a reviewer in The Dublin Eventng 








A Proof-reader’s Act of Contrition. 447 


Mail of July 2nd called “ remarkable,” and which in private an 
excellent judge (in two senses of the word) called “very remark- 
able,” is so far superior to the petty solicitudes of authorship, that 
he refused to look at proof-sheets, and confided all to the care of 
the present writer, who betrayed the trust egregiously in the July 
Number of this Magazine. One-of the reasons why he makes his 
‘act. of contrition so publicly is the hope that this attempt at 
reparation may gain another careful reader or two for that 
é“ remarkable paper ” on “ The Two Civilisations.”’ If we examined 
the June instalment carefully, we might discover some errata ; 
‘but July is enough for us. 

However, before we begin with our own confession, we may 
take refuge in the cowardly excuse that others are just as bad. A 
keen eye can detect mistakes in the best regulated magazines. 
One of the fine American monthlies—Scribner, or The Century for 
July, had an elaborate paper on the The Suburban House, and 
quotes the saying, Facilis est inventus addere, where sense requires 
facile est inventis addere. Stranger still, Zhe Irish Ecclesiastical 
Record of July, 1890, giving (page 670) an answer of the Congre- 
gation of Rites, directing that the prayer at Benediction should be 
sung recfo tono, with a single inflexion of the voice at the end— 
recto is twice printed serto. But the most inexcusable of misprints 
in Latin was committed by ourselves in printing some hexameters 
of Pope Leo XIII. In the act of stating that sundry microscopes 
had failed to detect an alleged false quantity, we allowed tanta 
to pass in place of tanto, making a glaring false quantity of our 
own, and a bit of had grammar and bad sense into the bargain. 

A writer in The Cathoic World, reviewing very favourably 
Miss Teresa Sparrow’s “ Olympias,” remarks that either the proof- 
reader or the author had not “kept the pages as free as they 
should be from small but annoying blemishes of a sort easily over- 
looked until once they have been handed over to the public—then 
they attain the immortality of a perpetual pillory.” We wish to 
pillory two or three peculiarly provoking misprints in a graphic 
sketch called “Father Pat,” which many of our readers seem to 
have specially appreciated in our May Number. The poor widow’s 
son, who is preparing for the priesthood, is referred to in the mid- 
dle of page 269 as “the imp whose person but a short time before 
she had been wont to treat with scant courtesy.” The important 
verb has here, with ugly realism, been changed by the compositor 


448 . he Irish Monthly. 


into beat. In page 267, line 26, change “have clasped” into 
“olasp,” and “called” into “call.” 

And now for the corrigenda in Part Second of “The Two 
Civilisations.” In the fine poem quoted from Blackwood’s Magazine, 
in page 359 of our present volume, the eleventh line should speak 
of the world shouting “ its paean (not power) for those who have 
won ;” and its penultimate line should contrast not “the martyr 
or hero,” but “ the martyrs or Nero.” 

In the first quotation from Tennyson, in page 361, let us read 
that “ the spirit of murder works in the very veins of life ;” and 
in the first line of the second quotation, change us into no—a small 
but important correction, which might remind us of those wretches 
who seem to look upon the not in some of the commandments as a 
mere monkish interpolation. Towards the end of the next page, 
“the words of the poet,” do not continue, but come true, and the 
moon is not scarred but scarved with fleecy clouds. 

Few would need to be told that the writer of such prose is a 
poet. Our magazine in its eighteen years has had the privilege of 
publishing many exquisite poems, but few nobler than “St. 
Augustine at Ostia,” in our sixteenth volume, and “The Leper 
Priest of Luneberg,” last year. We refer to them in the present 
melancholy context for the purpose of changing fleeting minds into 
fluting winds in page 539 :— i 

‘* A song so sweet that brook nor bird 
Nor fluting winds could give it birth.”’ 


If this humble confession should attract some of our readers 
back to the very wise and eloquent essay spoiled by mistakes for 


which this present writer is alone responsible, he will feel less 
regret for his negligence, while he promises not to do it again. 














SEPTEMBER, 18g0. 
T—— 


A STRIKING CONTRAST. 


umy THE AUTHOR OF “ THE MISER OF KING3COUBT, " “THE STRANGE ADVENTURES 
OF LITTLE SNOWDROP,” ETC. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 
DURA’S VISITOR. 


HEN the guests had all departed, and Lady Ashfield had 
been safely conveyed to her carriage, Sylvia drew Sir 
Fustace away from the deserted ball-room into her own little boudoir. 

é“ Now, grandpapa,” she said gaily, “we must have a pleasant 
half-hour before going to bed. You may smoke one of your very 
best cigars, and I will talk to you.” 

“ But you must be tired, little one,” he replied, patting her cheek. 
““H you don’t go to bed, there will be no roses to-morrow.” 

“ Do not be afraid, grandpapa. They will bloom as brightly as 
ever. But I could not sleep yet. I have something important to 
tell you.” 

He looked at her quickly, and a shadow passed over his face. 

‘Mystery, my darling. Has Lord Ashfield proposed? Does 
h e 3? 

“God forbid!” cried Sylvia, fervently. '“No, dearest, he has 
not. And I sincerely hope he never may.” 

Ti Why ?” 

‘‘Grandpapa, need you ask? You know, oh you know well, I 
could never accept him.” 

Sir Eustace smiled brightly, and drew her down upon the sofa 
beside him. 

Vou. xvi. No. 207. $2 





450 The Irish Monthly. 


“My darling is hard to please. Ashfield is most desirable in 
every way. But you shall not be coerced. Do exactly as you like.” 

“JT will,” replied the girl, dreamily, as she picked the withered 
leaves from her bouquet. “ Look at these flowers, grandpapa ; is it 
not sad to see them droop their heads ? ”” 

“Very sad, dearest. But such is life; all that’s bright must 
fade—a hackneyed, but true saying,” he remarked, smiling. ‘ But,” 
looking closely at the bouquet, “ that is not the one I ordered for 
you, Sylvia.” 

The girl blushed, and nestled closer to his side. 

‘No, dear; but I thought you would not mind. It—it matched 
my dress better than yours.” 

é“ Did Lord Ashfield send it? ” 

“No. I would not have taken his, instead of yours, although I 
must say it was very pretty.” 

‘‘Then who sent you this one that you say matched your dress 
better than mine?” | 

Sylvia lowered her eyes, and her lips trembled slightly. 

“TI don’t know, grandpapa—but I think—I feel sure it came 
from Paul.” 

“From Paul!” Sir Eustace started. “My dear, that is im- 
possible. He is abroad—in America.” 

‘Yes, so I believe. But in some way—by his orders, this 
bouquet was made and sent to me.”’ 

“ Sylvia!” 

“I am sure of this, grandpapa. And—and as I never concealed 
or kept anything from you in my life, I tell you what I think now.” 

“My darling!” He put his arm round her, and pressed a kiss 
upon her brow. “' Was tl:is your important communication ?” 

Sylvia laughed, and laid her bouquet, fan and gloves upon the 
couch beside her. 

“ No, grandpapa. What I wanted to tell you was this: those 
children, the Neils. who came from Melbourne with mein the Cimbvia, 
were not drowned.” 

“ My dear child, how did you hear this ?”’ 

“ Lord Ashfield told me to-night.”’ 

“ Ashfield! How does he know ?” 

“ Tt is a curious story—but very interesting.” 

And she then related the various incidents, as she had heard 
them from Lord Ashfield. 

Sir Eustace listened attentively; but when she had finished, he 
made no remark, and sat puffing his cigar, apparently absorbed in 
thought. i 


A Striking Contrast. 451 


“ [ cannot understand it, Sylwia,” he cried at last, and there were 
tears in his eyes as he spoke. ‘‘ Anne Dane saw them go down, and 
with almost superhuman strength, at the risk of being pitched into 
the ocean, she saved you as you were sinking with them.” 

“ Anne was mistaken— deceived in her terror. They did not sink, 
and are now in London.” 

é“ The number of times she described that night to me, and the 
certainty she felt that they were drowned, prevented me from 
advertising—from searching for them, poor little waifs. But now 
that we have found them, we must make up for lost time, my darling, 
and do what we can to help them.” 

“I knew you would say that,” cried Sylvia, joyfully. “I told 
Lord Ashfield so. He wanted me to keep their existence a secret 
from you. He fears that if Lady Ashfield heard you were going tu 
help them, she would set you against poor Madge.”’ 

‘*But why? Is there anything wrong with Madge? ” 

“Indeed there is not,” cried Sylvia, forgetting that she knew 
very little about the girl. ‘‘ She is wonderfully good and clever.” 

“Well, dear, I shall not mind anything Lady Ashfield may say, 
and will help these children to the best of my power.” 

‘Then I may go to see them to-morrow ?” 

“ Certainly; and when you know them a little, we shall see what 
we can do for them. They must have had a hard struggle to live.” 

“Yes, very. And just think, grandpapa, how different has been 
my life,” said Sylvia, clinging to him, “and how terrible it might 
have been if Anne had not saved me, and if [, too, had been cast 
away with these children— or all alone perhaps.” . 

“ My darling, I thank God from the bottom of my heart that such 
a trial as that was spared us. We owe a deep debt of gratitude to 
Anne. What should I have done without you, my precious Sylvia ?” 

“You would have been lonely, I think,” she whispered 
caressingly. ‘‘ Although I am a care, and sometimes a worry.” 

‘© Never,” he cried indignantly. ‘‘ Never!” 

“What? Not even when you are forced into giving balls for my 
sake?” 

‘‘Not even then, you saucy puss. And now, to bed, or I shall 
have you looking as limp as your poor bouquet, to-morrow.” 

“There is no fear of that. But now that I have told you wy 
story, I think I shall retire. I do feel tired, I confeas.” 

“I thought so, my pet. So now good-night. Do not come down 
for breakfast, but take a long sleep to make up for all you have lost. 
Good-night.”” And throwing aside his cigar, he folded her in his arms, 
and kissed her tenderly. 


452 The Irish Monthly. 


The next morning Sylvia did not, however, follow her grandfather’s 
advice, but rang early for her maid; and much to that young person’s 
astonishment, informed her that she wanted breakfast, and was going 
out at eleven. 

“ Does Mademoiselle require the carriage ?” asked Désirée. 

“No. 1am going into a poor neighbourhood and shall walk. I 
want you to come with me.” 

‘¢C’est incroyable!” cried the maid, as she went to obey her 
‘mistress’s orders. “ After a ball, and that ball at home!’ But 
Mademoiselle Atherstone has the strength of—I know not what.” 

However, Désirée could only submit, and at eleven o’clock she 
and Sylvia walked briskly along the Cromwell Road. 

On leaving home, Sylvia felt full of joy at the thought of her 
expedition, and the good she would surely be able to do these poor 
orphans. But as she went down Walton Street, and drew near the 
house where the Neils lived, she became nervous and uncomfortable. 
It seemed an impertinence to walk in to these girls and offer to 
assist them. They might be offended, and resent the intrusion. It 
would be better, perhaps, to write first to let them know she was 
coming. But no, that would cause a delay. She had promised 
Lord Ashfield to see them at once. She would keep her promise. 

So on she went, her colour a little higher than usual, her 
heart beating tumultuously. 

She reached the house. Miss Dora was in. Miss Madge was at 
school. 

“You can wait here, Desircée, or return for me in an hour,” she 
said, in a low voice. The Neils’ rooms were on the fourth floor. 
A long way up, it seemed to the visitor. 

On the last landing the girl paused. ‘There were two doors. At 
whjch should she knock? Suddenly the sound of a sweet voice, 
singing an old Irish air, fell on her ear; and in an instant she knew 
it must be Dora who sang. 

She waited till the song was finished, then knocked gently, and 
was quickly bidden to enter. She opened the door, and stepped 
across the threshold ; then stopped abruptly, gazing with admiration 
at the picture before her. 

On the sofa lay Dora. Round about her, like a cloak, fell 
her long golden hair ; and her fingers were busy with some yards of 
pale blue silk, that she was hemming industriously. She did not look 
up for a moment. And as Sylvia stood watching her, Browning’s 
description in “ Gold Hair” flashed through her mind, and seemed 
as though written for the occasion. 


“ Hair such a wonder of flax and floss, 
Freshness and fragrance—~floods of it too !’’ 











A Striking Contrast. 453 


“& Will you kindly shut the door when you go out, Mrs. Sims ?”’ 
said Dora without lifting her eyes. ‘‘I don’t want to get up just 
now, and there is such a draught when it is open.”’ 

Sylvia shut the door, and approached the sofa. 

“I hope you will not think me very impertinent,” she begun, 
‘‘but—” Dora looked up. She grew suddenly pale as death. A 
little cry escaped her lips, and dropping her work, she held out both 
hands in eager welcome. 

‘‘Sylvia!’? Then flushing crimson. “I beg your pardon, Miss 
Atherstone. I am surprised, yet very glad to see you.” 

‘‘Sylvia, it must be, dear; for we are—at least we ought to be 
like sisters, you and I,” replied the visitor, sinking down on her 
knees beside the couch, and pressing her lips to Dora’s. 

“ Sisters ?”’ 

“Yes, dear. For although you may not know it, we were friends 
when we were little, and were almost lost together in the same 
wreck.”’ 

“Yes,” said Dora. ‘I know, and you” —~ 

‘tT was saved by my faithful nurse, and carried to my grandfather, 
to be loved and petted all my life, whilst you—O Dora, how different 
has been your fate. You lost your father, mother, all you loved.” 

“ No, thank God, I did not lose Madge, my sweet, my darling 
sister.” 

“No, Gud was too merciful to rob you of all. But oh, Dora, 
what a hard, hard struggle you and Madge must have had.” 

“ Hard indeed. But Madge has suffered most. She has had the 
hardest fight.” 

“ All that is over, dear. Your future is in our hands. Would 
that we had found you sooner! Papa was so fond of your father, and 
so anxious to help his children, that he wrote continually to grandpapa 
to look for you. He would not believe you were drowned. But Anne 
‘Dane declared you were.” 

‘‘Anne Dane,” cried Dora, with flashing eyes, ‘knew we were 
not—she knew we were alive.” 

“No, no, dear, you are mistaken. Poor Anne may have been 
deceived, but she firmly believed you were de 

“Bhe,” began Dora, then breaking off abruptly, she said: “ Do 
not kneel any longer, dear. Sit beside me, on that little stool.” 

“Why are you on the sofa, Dora?” asked Sylvia, doing as 
desired. ‘‘ You seemed pretty well that day you came to Cromwell 
Road with Mdme. Garniture.” 

‘Yes; but my spine is always weak, and that morning I hada 
shock. I have not been well since.” 


44 - The Irish Monthly. 


“ A shock ?” 

“Yes. I—we had looked for you so long, so hopelessly, that 
when I saw you I nearly fainted.” 

‘‘ But you did not know me when I spoke to you?” 

“Oh, no; but afterwards, when you had gone to the drawing- 
room, the maid told me,”’ 

‘‘ Poor little Dora! I wish I knew. I took such a fancy to you 
that day, because I thought you like my mother.” 

Dora started, and fixed her eyes upon her in astonishment. 

“Your mother ?” 

“Yes, dear, my dead mother; I never saw her, you know; but 
that morning grandpapa had just been describing her to me, from 
what papa had said about her in his letters. She was small and fair, 
with golden hair and blue eyes; and when I saw you upon the land- 
ing, I was startled, for you seemed exactly what she might have been, 
or rather what her daughter ought to be. It made me sad to think 
that I was so unlike her. Poor little mother, she died so young. 
Was Mrs. Neil fair ?”’ 

é“ I don’t know,” replied Dora, in a low voice, ‘‘ I was only a baby 
at the time of her death.” 

“Of course ; but then, Madge might have told you.” 

“ She never did.” 

“And you never asked? That is strange. Did you never 
wonder if you were like your mother?” 

“ Yes, often.” 

“I thought go. Every girl does, I think; at least every girl 
whose mother is dead, and whom she has never known. I have not 
even a picture of my darling. She was born and died in Australia, 
and no one here ever saw her. When papa sent me home with Anne 
Dane, he put a miniature of mother round my neck; but, alas! it 
was lost on the night of the wreck. Wasn’t that a pity ? ” 

<6 Yes. 9 

_Dora’s lips quivered, and she closed her eyes lest Sylvia should 
see anything strange in their expression as she pressed her mother’s 
portrait tightly against her heart. 

“ Are you in pain, dear?” asked Sylvia, noticing this sudden 
movement. 

“ A little,” whispered Dora, “ but don’t mind me, it will pass off.” 

“ Poor child, I cannot bear to see you suffer. But we shajl soon 
make you strong. You must leave these stuffy rooms at once; 
grandpaps will find you a pleasant place; you shall see a good dovtur, 
and then ”—— 

Dora started up, and seizing Sylvia’s hand pressed it to her lips. 


A Striking Contrast. . 455 


é Do not make me love you too much,” she cried, “do not show 
me what a good, noble girl you are, for when you know, when you ' 
hear, you will hate me, and then—oh, I cannot bear it.” 

And, overcome with emotion, Dora fell back, sobbing bitterly. 

“My dear child, what can you mean ?” 

“ Nothing, nothing! Do not look so frightened. But you must 
not do, or wish to do too much for us—Madge would not allow it; 
she is proud. But help her to work—find her pupils who will pay 
her well—and she will bless you. More, neither she nor I could 
accept, unless—but that Madge would never consent to.” 

Sylvia smiled, and, smoothing back the golden hair gently, kissed 
the girl’s fair brow. 

“What a pair of proud sisters,” she said, playfully. ‘‘ Lord 
Ashfield was right when he said ? 

Dora trembled; her pale cheeks grew scarlet. 

“Lord Ashfield? Did he tell you?” 

“He told me all—where you were, who you were, and how 
” anxious he was to help you.” 

“He has helped us, in many ways.” 

Sylvia looked at her in surprise. 

“ Really? I thought he had never been able to do anything. 
Lady Ashfield ”—— 

“ Was cruel—oh, so cruel to poor Madge.” 

“Iam sorry, very sorry to hear that. For though fond of 
managing people and things in her own way, she is not unkind.” 

“No,” said Dora bitterly, ‘‘ but she was to Madge; so much so 
that we resolved never to accept any help from her hands. However, 
she has never troubled us. From the evening that Madge called upon 
her, we have never heard from her.” 

‘‘Lord Ashfield told me how grieved he was at his mother’s 
conduct.” 

“I thought he would be,’ cried Dora. ‘I told Madge how good, 
how noble he was. But, although he saved us from terrible misery 
by paying our rent, she cannot bear to hear his name mentioned—and 
all because of his mother.” 

“ She is wrong then,” said Sylvia gravely. “For he is exactly 
what you say, noble and good.” 

Dora looked at her closely, then turned away to lay her work upon 
the table. ‘‘ Do you like him very much?” she asked. 

‘Very much. I have known him since I was a child.” 

Dora sighed, and moved restlessly from side to side. 

“ I might have known,” she murmured to herself, ‘“‘1 might have 
known everything—why not this as well ?” 





2 


456 The Irish Monthly. 


“ And you will tell Madge from me,” continued Sylvia, not noticing 
the look of sorrow on Dora’s face, “that she must not judge people 
rashly. It is wrong to blame Lord Ashfield for his mother’s fault.” 

“ Yes, yes, cruelly wrong.” 

“ And I think—I am afraid Madge must be rather foolish some- 
times. Lady Ashfield was anxious to help you, but your sister 
offended her deeply, by something she said or did. Of course I was 
not there, and so do not know how it happened. But Madge should 
be more careful.” 

Dora covered her face with her hands, and groaned aloud. 

“ Poor Madge! Oh, if you only knew! But I dare not, I can- 
not tell you. And now, I hope you may never know.”’ 

é“ Well, dear, you speak mysteriously. But I shall never ask you 
to tell me anything that you wish to keep secret. And if it is any- 
thing against Madge, I should prefer not to hear it, because ”— 

“ Against Madge ?’’ Dora’s small frame quivered, and her blue 
eyes flashed ominously. ‘‘ Against Madge! Sylvia Atherstone, are 
you dreaming? Did anyone say there was anything against Madge ? ”” 

“ No, but?’—— 

“ Against Madge! Madge who is so good and true. Madge who 
has laboured and struggled. Madge who has been father, mother, 
sister, everything tome. As if there could be anything against her — 
as if” 

Sylvia laid her hand upon Dora’s, and pressed it gently. 

é“ My dear,” she said soothingly, “ do not be angry with me. I 
meant no harm. I am sure Madge is all you say. I spoke thought- 
lessly. But your mysterious hints misled me.” 

é“ I must speak mysteriously unless—but tell me, Sylvia,” she 
asked almost fiercely, ‘‘ are you proud of your position, your name ? 
Would it pain you to become poor, to fall from being Miss Atherstone, 
to become a poor girl like me?” 

Sylvia looked at her wonderingly. She could not understand 
the drift of these strange questions, and feared the girl’s mind must 
be as feeble as her body. | 

‘‘ [ could not imagine such a change, dear,” she said gently. “ So 
do not let us talk about the impossible. The question now is, how 
grandpapa and I can help you and Madge?” 

Dora flushed painfully ; she did not speak ; and two large tears 
fell from her eyes, and ran unheeded down her cheeks. 

“Dora,” cried Sylvia, flinging her arms round her. ‘ My dear, 
you are unhappy. Tell me—what is it? What is this mystery ?”’ 

Dora allowed her head to rest upon Sylvia’s breast ; and, raising 
her face to hers, kissed her with lingering tendernes. Then suddenly, 
she pushed her roughly away. 





3? 











A Striking Contrast. 467 


“Hush !” she said, “do not mention this again. My weak 
health has embittered me; and for a moment I felt jealous—horribly 
jealous—and longed to be in your place. To be—what of course I 
never can be—the beautiful Miss Atherstone.”’ 

“I think, dear,” said Sylvia smiling gaily, “ we cannot do quite 
that for you, and you must be content to be the lovely Miss Neill.” 

Dora gazed at her with shining eyes. 

“ You are good, and kind, and beautiful,” she cried, ‘‘ fit in every 
way for your place, far, far better than I could ever be.” 

“ Well, Iam glad you approve of me,” replied Sylvia, laughing 
merrily. ‘It is pleasant to know that I am considered a worthy scion 
of my family by Miss Dorothy Neil. But now we must talk no 
more nonsense, my fair critic, we must be grave and solemn, and 
consider what is the best thing to be done for you at once.” 

“ Ask some of your rich friends to take music lessons from Madge. 
She plays splendidly, and isa thorough musician.” 

“That has been done already. Here,” opening her card-case, 
“are the addresses of two ladies, who told me last night they wanted 
a music-teacher for their children. Let Madge go to these houses 
to-morrow and mention my name. They are wealthy people, and will 
pay her well. If she plays as well as you say, she will secure three 
good pupils, at least. In time we shall find her more. And she'll 
soon grow quite rich.” 

‘* And then she can leave that odious school,” cried Dora joyfully. 
é“ This will, indeed, be good news for my poor darling. Thank you, 
Sylvia, a hundred times.” 

“ No thanks, dear—and you must give up hemming those frills.” 

é“ No, I could not do that. These frills that you speak so con- 
temptuously of save me from— “well, too much thinking, and Madame 
Garniture’s pay is a great help.” 

“ But you shall not require it now, my little Dora.” 

‘Certainly, I shall. I am not going to live on charity. If I 
cannot have what is my own—that is,” blushing and stammering, “if 
I have nothing of my own, I must earn it.” 

é“ You are as proud as Madge, then?” 

é“ Almost; so you must leave me my frills, Sylvia, till—well, till 
something turns up.” 

“You shall do exactly as you please. Be happy in your own way: 
And, now, good-bye. I'll come again soon. But I must go now. 
Désirée is waiting for me. I am so glad to have found you out.” 

And, bending, Sylvia kissed Dora softly on the forehead, and 
hurried downstairs. 

“Bo glad to have found me out. Poor, unsuspecting girl 


1?” 


458 The Irish Monthly, 


murmured Dora, as the door closed upon her visitor. “ But, oh, how 
shall we ever let her know the truth? How shall we drag her fromm 
her high position, make her his inferior in birth, unworthy to be 
lus wife? [could not do it—I could not do it,” and the sweet face 
was full of pain at thethought ‘‘ Alas, what a cruel destiny is mine. 
But now I must try to be happy. Iam pleased that she is so kind, 
so good, and if—but I will write to Madge, and tell her to ‘hurry 
back. Mrs. Sims will take my note to the school on her way home. 
I long to tell my darling the good news, that she may soon leave 
those insolent girls at Penelope Lodge for some more congenial 
occupation.” 

And, rising slowly from the sofa, Dora went to the table, and 
taking pencil and paper sat down to write to Madge. 


CHAPTER XIX. 
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 


Just as Sylvia reached the street, her mind full of Dora, and 
her pretty yet perplexing ways, a young man of about six or seven 
and twenty, entering the house, met her. He was not tall, hardly 
above the average height, and very slight, with dark grey eyes, and a 
broad, noble brow, from which masses of fair curling hair were thrown 
in artistic carelessness. His coat was a well-worn black velvet, and 
the hat he carried in his hand a rather shabby soft, grey felt. 

The girl’s glance fell upon him as he approached, and she gave a 
little cry; then, stopping short, steadied herself against the banister, 
and examined him more closely. 

“ Paul,” she whispered. “Oh, Paul, is it possible ?” 

At the sound of her voice the young man started. The hot blood 
rushed to his forehead; his eyes seemed to have absorbed the 
sunshine. 

e Sylvia!” 

He ran forward joyfully, caught both her hands, and carried them 
rapidly tu his lips. She drew them gently away, and looked straight 
into his eyes, He did not flinch or quail beneath her glance. His 
was as true, as faithful as her own. 

“Paul,” she asked with heightened colour, as he turned to accom- 
pany her a few paces in the street, ‘‘ why are you here? We thought 
you were in America.” 


A Striking Contrast. 459 


‘tT am here,” he cried, ‘‘ because America is too far away. Better 
to starve in the same town, within a few streets of you, than grow 
rich with an ocean between us.” 

“ What are you doing?” 

‘‘ Working one day, idling the next.” 

“ And is that your idea of how a man shuuld live if he wishes to 
make a name?” 

“Name!” he cried bitterly. ‘‘I shall never make a name.” 

‘‘T am very sorry to hear that. I hoped—I believed you would. 
You did not talk so in the old days.” 

“I was a simpleton then—a fool.” 

‘Then .all your dreams—all your ambition has gone? The 
promises you made ”— . 

“ Sylvia, do not blame me,” he implored. “I have been unlucky 
all through. The fates are against me.” 

"I do not see that.” 

“You do not see it, oh, how can you sayso? Think what my life 
has been. As a boy, I was taken from my poor home to Sir Kustace 
Atherstone’s splendid mansion. I was surrounded with luxury, spoilt 
and petted, a mere plaything for the lonely millionaire. Then you 
came. I was cast aside. But I cared little forthat. I adored you— 
my sister, my treasure. All my thoughts were of you—everything I 
did was to please you. And my first reason for wishing to be an 
artist was, that I might paint your portrait. Then followed our years 
abroad. My boyish love grew to passion. 1 tuld my love—and the 
penniless dependent was sent away, turned adrift with hard words, 
to sink or swim as chance decreed.” . 

é You are unjust and ungrateful,” cried Sylvia warmly. “ Grand- 
papa wished to continue your allowance, but you’’—— 

“ Refused to eat the bread of charity. Yes, Sylvia, when I 
suddenly realised that you and I, though we lived in the same house, 
and ate at the same table, were not considered equals, I saw the 
injustice that had been done to me.” 

“ Injustice ?”’ 

é“ Yes, I repeat it, injustice. What right had Sir Eustace to take 
me out of my natural position, teach me luxurious habits, bring me 
up on terms of equality with you, his granddaughter, and then, when 
I told him of my luve for you, spurn me and tell me I was a beggar?” 

He paused, and turning his eyes full of indignant feeling upon 
her, seemed waiting for a reply. 

But none came. Sylvia did not speak. Her sweet face wore an 
expression of sorrow, her mouth a look of pain. Her bright colour 
had faded as Paul became vehement; and as he gazed at her, 


460 Lhe Irish Monthly. 


longing for a word of sympathy, he was suddenly struck by her 
extreme pallor. 

‘Sylvia, you are ill—I have annoyed you,” he said, trying to 
take her hand. ‘Oh, my love, my love, forgive me.” 

But the girl sprang aside. 

é“ Do not touch me,” she cried, “ nor call me by that name, till 
you have earned the right —till ”— 

é“ Sylvia!” 

“ Paul, listen to me. You have spoken unfairly, ungenerously of 
my grandfather. In the bitterness of your soul, you have taken all 
that he has done for you, all the kindness he has lavished on you, in a 
wrong spirit. You have called him unjust. You must unsay those 
words, and show by your life that they are untrue, or—or never speak 
to me again.” 

“ But, Sylvia, how can I do this?” 

“ By your life; by giving up your idle ways, and working 
honestly, manfully.” 

“ Of what use would it be?” 

“ Of great use—to show that you are a man, and not a mere 
creature of whims and fancies ; to show that the affection, the money, 
and opportunities bestowed upon you by Sir Eustace, have not been 
thrown away ; to prove to me that I have not loved a worthless — 

‘Sylvia, spare me. I know—I feel my own shortcomings. Do 
not make me hate and despise myself.” 

‘‘No,” she said, and there were tears in her voice as she spoke, 
“that is not my object. Oh. Paul, if you would only be true to your- 
self, exert yourself, and not fritter away the talents God has given 
you, how happy we might be.” 

“Sylvia, do you mean this? Could any effort of mine make a 
difference ? Could J under any circumstances be received as yours? ”” 

The girl's white face grew crimson, and her eyes fell beneath his 
gaze. 

é“ Alas! ” he cried, “you know it could not be. I, the son of a 
simple farmer, could never aspire to the rich Miss Atherstone. Good 
Heavens! Why are you not poor? Why are you not poor? Why 
are you not like that young girl upstairs, Miss Dora Neil? If you 
were only in her position, and that my work could help to support 
you, Td toil night and day.” 

“Then, why not do so, if only to please me—and grandpapa ?”’ 

“ He does not care.” 

é There you are mistaken. He cares a great deal; he loves y you, 
Paul, and misses you, I know.” 

‘Then why did he send me away? Why did he forbid me his 
house ?” 





A Striking Contrast. 461 


“He sent you away because he thought it his duty to do so, 
hecause he was told, advised to do so, by Lady Ashfield. He 
consulted me, and I agreed that he was right. Yes, I felt that 
vou were not working as you should, that you were too fond of 
a life of ease. I loved you, Paul; but I saw your faults, and I 
was full of ambition for you. In Rome I heard men say that 
you were clever, almost a genius,. and that if you only had 
patience and industry, you might one day become a great artist. But 
I was told—‘ Living as he does, he will never do any good,’ And so, 
when grandpapa said that you were to be left behind there, that you 
were not to live with us anymore, I felt he was right. If Paul, I 
thought, loves me as he says, separation can do no harm—it will 
inspire him with an anxiety to work. But I and grandpapa have 
both been bitterly disappointed. At the first mention of leaving us, 
you lost your temper, your foolish pride was up in arms at once, and 
with angry words you flung away from Sir Eustace, declaring that 
you would never take another penny of his money. Since then you 
have not written, and it was only by chance that we heard you had 
gone to America ; and now, by another curious accident, I come face 
to face with you, and so learn that you are in London.” 

As Sylvia’s words fell upon his ear, and she told him thus, in a 
voice full of sorrow and tender feeling, the story of his separation 
from her, whom he loved with all his soul, and put before him, in a 
new light, his quarrel with the man who had been a kind, indulgent 
father to him since his earliest boyhood, he felt stricken with shame 
and remorse. With folded arms he stood before her, where she had 
turned to put an end to their interview; and as she spoke, his head 
dropped upon his breast, and he dared not raise his eyes to hers. 

As the girl ceased, she turned away with a sigh. She had spoken 
plainly, had told him the unvarnished truth, and had, perhaps, 
offended him beyond forgiveness. Well, she had done what she 
thought right, and, if he should take her lecture badly, she must bear 
it. She had delivered it for his good; she could not regret having 
done so. She waited a moment, expecting him to make some angry 
retort, or mutter some words of excuse. But he stood in sullen 
silence, showing neither by look nor movement that he had heard her 
last words. 

Sylvia glanced at him in pained surprise. A mist rose before her 
eyes, and she felt a strange throbbing at her heart. 

“ Good-bye, Paul,” she said, with a little sob, “I must go. Good- 
bye.” 

She walked past him, then turned and gazed at him sadly, 
longingly. He looked up, and as he met her beautiful eyes fixed 





462 The Irish Monthly. 


upon him in earnest pleading, the last remnant of false pride fell 
away, and he felt deeply penitent, and full of remorse. In an instant 
he was by her side again. 

“ Sylvia,” he cried, in a voice of anguish, “ do not leave me just 
yet. Listen to me, I implore—I entreat. Your words have opened 
my eyes, torn down the veil that my pride had hung before them. I 
had always looked upon myself as the person most wronged. But 
now I see how shameful, how ungrateful, has been my conduct.” 

A look of joy flashed across Sylvia’s lovely face, and smiling 
radiantly, she put her hand in his. 

“ Bravely spoken, Paul,” she cried. “Your pride blinded you, I 
know. But proud as you are, you are generous also, and, having 
seen and acknowledged your faults, you will, Iam sure, atone for 
them as quickly and as fally as you can.”’ 

é& Alas ! I can never do that.” 

é But you can, if you will.” 

‘¢ Will! Oh, Sylvia, if I only knew how, that will never be 
wanting.” 

“It is quite easy,” she said gently. ‘‘ At least, I think it should 
not be so very hard. You must go to Sir Eustace, and tell him what 
you feel, ask him to forgive you, and believe me your prayer will not 
be long unheard.” 

“ And shall I tell him what my life has been?” he asked 
abruptly. ‘‘ How I have wasted my time and my talents, painting 
only when forced to do so by bare necessity ?”’ 

“ Yes, tell him all. But also tell him that you are about to change 
your way, that you are going to work at last.” 

‘‘T can do little. My room is small. I have bad light.”’ 

“ Then you must take a studio. There are some excelient ones in 
the Fulham Avenue. I have been there on Show Sunday, with 
grandpapa.”’ 

é“ That is impossible. A poor beggar like me cannot afford such 
aluxury. I told Lord Ashfield so only yesterday.” 

‘“‘ Lord Ashfield ! Does he know you are in town ?” 

“Yes, He has sat to me for his portrait, like a good fellow, and 
since then I have received an order to paint the wife of a city noble, 
who is proud to have her portrait done by an artist who has just 
taken the likeness of an earl.” 

‘‘T am glad to hear that, for it shows me that you are not quite 
so idle as you would have me believe. But now you must take that 
studio.” 

Paul looked at her gravely, and shook his head. 

“ I mean what I say,” she replied earnestly. ‘‘ You must take it.” 


em 


A Striking Contrast. 463 


“ But the money ?” he asked impatiently. ‘‘ Where is it to come 
from ? ” ' 

“ From Sir Eustace. Now do not turn away, but listen to me, 
Paul. Sometime ago grandpapa offered you an allowance. You in 
your anger refused it. But now you see you were wrong, and you 
acknowledged your folly. Then go and say so. He was your father 
for years. Confess your fault, and in all humility ask him to help. 
you for a few years till you begin to get on. This, surely, is not a 
very difficult thing to do ?”’ 

& Tt will be terribly hard, but to please you, Sylvia, I will do it.” 

é“ That is right,” she cried brightly. ‘ You have made me very 
happy. Iam sure if you will only try, you will succeed splendidly. 
And you must tell grandpapa that you are determined to do so, that 
you have a high ambition, a noble purpose to achieve.” _ 

“ And may I say that you, Sylvia, have held out a hope that - 
should I one day distinguish myself, that you will think kindly of 
me? And perhaps ”—— 

Sylvia held out her hands, and, as he pressed them to his lips, 
she looked at him earnestly. 

é“ Paul,” she whispered, “ work and hope. God will take care of 
our future.” 

Then she turned from him, and ran swiftly on her way. 

“ My God!” he cried, as she vanished from his sight, *‘ what 
a foul I have been, wasting my life in idleness and folly ; but it shall 
be so no longer. She—my Sylvia, my love ! shall live to be proud of 
me, to rejoice at my success.”’ 

And he went into his room and locked the door. 

That evening as Sir Eustace Atherstone sat reading in the 
library, a footman entered, and asked if he might admit a gentleman. 
who wished particularly to see him. 

é“ What is his name ? ” 

“He refused to give it, Sir Eustace.” 

“ You may show him in.’ 

The servant bowed and retired. A moment later the door opened 
again, and the stranger walked in. 

Sir Eustace laid aside his book, and turning looked at his visitor. 

“ May I ask,” he began, then paused, and sprang to his feet. 

" Paul—you here ? ” 

s Yes, Sir Eustace, I am here, here to tell you of my sorrow for 
my past conduct, and to implore you to forgive my wild words, my 
bitter ingratitude.” 

é My boy,” said Sir Eustace with much emotion, and grasping 
him warmly by the hand, “I forgave you long ago. Your behaviour 





464 The Irish Monthly. 


was that of a hot-headed, foolish youth. I knew you would be sorry 
when you had time to reflect ; you have taken almost a year to do so; 
but better late than never; I am truly glad to see you. This will be 
good news for Sylvia.” 

‘‘She knows all. She it was who brought me to my senses, 
showed me how wicked, how foolish I had been.” 

A cloud passed over the old man’s face. 

é“ Sylvia saw you ? Talked to you, and yet did not tell me? That 
cannot be; only last night she spoke mysteriously of a bouquet that 
she thought came from you, but she never said she had seen you.’ 

“ I did not meet Sylvia till to-day. She was as surprised as you 
to find I was in London. For although she may have guessed that 
I sent the bouquet, because of a certain arrangement of the flowers, 
she could not know that I had come back to England. We met by 
accident, at the door of the house in which I lodge.” 

“ Of course; I might have known my darling would never have 
concealed your meeting. But I have been away all day, and have 
not seen her since morning. And now, Paul, what about yourself ? 
What have you been doing ? Are you getting on in your profession ? ”’ 

“I have made no way, Sir Eustace. I have painted for my daily 
bread. When I had enough for that, I idled and spent the money I 
earned.”’ 

‘Well, well, you must turn over a new leaf. You have sown 
your wild oats. Now you must begin to work seriously.”’ 

‘‘T am determined to do so,” answered Paul, decidedly. ‘‘ And 
now, Sir Eustace, I have a request to make. You once offered me 
an allowance ; I refused it with scorn, because since I could not have 
your most precious jewel, I would have nothing. I would now ask 
you to give me that help, unless you have lost all faith in me, and 
have ceased to take an interest in me and my career.” 

“ My dear Paul, for years you were dear to me as a son, and, 
until that unhappy quarrel, I never received a rude word from you; 
you now return suing for pardon, and I grant it, wholly and entirely. 
From this hour we are friends again. The three hundred a year I 
allowed you when in Rome has been duly paid into the Union Bank for 
you ever since that day when I first mentioned it to you. Send for 
your bank-book, and you will doubtless find you have a goodly 
balance to your name.’ 

Paul was speechless from emotion, and his eyes were wet and 
shining as he raised them gratefully to his benefuctor’s face. 

“You are good, too good,” he stammered at last. “How shall I 
show my gratitude ?” 

“By working hard, and making a name for yourself. Let me 








A Striking Contrast. 466. 


hear you spoken of as an industrious man, a rising artist, and I will 
be satisfied.” 

“Tt shall be done. And you will come and see me; let me paint 
your portrait.” 

‘‘Certainly, with pleasure. But, Paul”—Sir Eustace hesitated, 
took up a book, and laid it down again, sighed, and turned away to 
the mantel-piece. 

“ Yes, Sir Eustace,” said Paul, “ you were about to say ”—— 

The old man wheeled round, and looked fiercely at Paul. “My 
ideas, my wishes as to your intercourse with my granddaughter are 
unchanged. You must not come here, or seek to meet her.” 

Paul coloured to the temples. This was the subject of their 
former quarrel. At these remarks, or similar ones, he had lost his 
temper, insulted his benefactor. But he was wiser now. Sylvia's 
looks and words that morning had filled him with joy, given him hope 
that nothing could take from him. She obeyed her grandfather, and 
wished him to do the same. But she would be true to her own heart. 
So he overcame a rebellious inward rising, and answered quiefly : 
“I shall do exactly as you command.” 

é That is right,” cried Sir Eustace cheerfully. “ Your journey to 
the States has done you good—changed you in many ways.”’ 

“It has. ‘But in one thing I can never change, and it is right 
that you should know it. I love Sylvia now as dearly asever. I 
shall never cease to love her.” 

“ What folly!” 

‘‘It may be folly, but whatever it is, it is part of my life. 
Would that she were poor, that I might win her, and make a home 
for her by my own exertions.” — 

“That is a cowardly wish. Why should you want to lower her ? 
Better far to raise yourself to her.” 

“ But of what avail? She is as far above me as the stars,” he 
cried, and there was a pathetic ring in his voice as he spoke. “ And 
you, Sir Eustace, would never help me to reach her. In your eyes 
my lowly birth would always be an insurmountable barrier.”’ 

“ It would. I do not approve of people marrying out of their 
sphere. Therefore I hope you will forget my granddaughter.” 

“ And Sylvia ? ' Is she to be sacrificed? Is her heart to be 
broken ? ” 

Sir Eustace startled. He grew white to the lips. “ Sylvia ?” he 
groaned. “: She does not, cannot care ’?—— 

‘Sir Eustace, pray do not curse me in your wrath,” cried Paul 
with emotion. “ It ie not my fault that Sylvia has been true; that 
all these years, surrounded as she has been with men more worthy, 


Vor. xvox. No. 207. 83 








466 The Irish Monthly. 


more cultivated than I, she has grown to love me, the friend of her 
youth. I came here this evening resolved to tell you all; there shall 
be nothing deceitful in my conduct.” 

“Then you mean to tell me” 

Paul's eyes shone radiantly, he stood proudly erect, and shook 
back the fair hair from his brow with a gesture of delight. 

é That Sylvia loves me ? Yes, thank God, I am sure of it.” 

The old man sank into a chair, and covering his face with his 
hands, murmured sadly : 

“ Oh, my darling, has it come to this? Has it come to this?” 

But presently he rose up, and going close to the young artist, 
looked at him anxiously. 

é“ Paul,” he said, in trembling accents, “your words are a 
revelation to me, and change all my ideas. I thought my Sylvia was 
a child still, And now, as [ remember many things she has said, 
many expressions of her lovely face, I know you are right. She is. 
& woman. Poor darling! God keep her from sorrow.” 

‘Sir Eustace,” cried Paul passionately, “ you do not think I could 
ever bring sorrow to my love? You cannot—you must not say so.” 

“Paul,” cried the old man solemnly, ‘‘are you worthy? Has your 
life been one to make you worthy to lift your eyes to a girl so noble, 
go pure and holy, as my Sylvia ?” 

“No, to my shame, I own it. It has not.”. 

‘¢ Then, how can you expect me to welcome you as her husband 2 
I am speaking to you now as I would speak to any other man, were 
he of the noblest in the land. Birth, riches, honours are little value 
compared to that of an upright, a spotless character. And to no one 
living shall I give my darling till he has proved beyond doubt that 
his life is honourable in every way.” 

“Sir Eustace, you are right,” said Paul with humility. ‘‘ I bow to 
your decree. But I ask you honestly to tell me what your decision 
is. HI work hard, if from this hour I lead a life of industry, if my 
labours are crowned not, perhaps, with world-wide fame, but with a 
fair amount of success, and at the end of this year I come to you, and 
you find that Sylvia still loves me, will you then encourage me to 
hope to win her as my wife ?” 

The old man took his hand, and looked straight into his face. 

“I believe you are in earnest, Paul,” he said. ‘‘God grant you 
all possible success. Everything that I can doto help you in your 
profession shall be done. At the end of the year, perhaps before, you 
shall have a more definite answer. But leave Sylvia tome. Do not 
seek to see her. Leave her free, and—well, we shall see.” 

é Then I may hope,” cried Paul, with quivering lips. ‘Oh, Sir 








Martyrs. 467 


Eustace, I shall now work night and day. No toil shall tire me, no 
labour seem to hard. A year will appear as a month ’’—— 

“ Do not let your enthusiasin mislead you, Paul. Many things 
may happen in a year. Before that time myYson, Sylvia’s father, 
returns.. I may then have no power over my darling’s life. He may 
have other views, other ideas for his daughter's future.” 

‘True, but you will speak kindly of me, think kindly of ime, 
promise me that, Sir Eustace.” 

“ IT promise.” 

(Zo be continued. ) 


MARTYRS. 
1; Mariyrum candsdatus laudatexercitus. 
I. 


A SHIMMERING band all fair and white, 
Nearest the Throne’s imperial light, 
They stand, the purified and blest, 
On every brow the Martyr’s crest. 
Through seas of trouble and distress, 
Through pain and want and weariness, 
Through persecution, fire and flame, 
Through blood and agony, they came,— 
Reviled and scorned, in grief and woe, 
Fearless and brave, they met the foe, 
Fresh strength receiving every hour 
To wrestle with the Tempter’s power— 
And now, their weary warfare past, 
Before the Throne their crowns they cast, 
Their voices join the angelic song, 
A purified and holy throng. 


i. 


And are the days of Martyrs o’er? 
Does Satan tempt frail man no more ? 
Are our poor lives so free from sin 
That nought impure can enter in? 

" We know our faith may not require 
To test its strength by thong or fire 


468 The Brish Monthly. 


But are we nearer, Lord, to Thee, 

Or nearer lone Gethsemane ? 

Are there no passions to be stilled, 

No empty moments to be filled, 

No cherished wish to be denied, 

Ere we can reach Thy riven Side? 

A penance long each life must be, 

And blood-stained every step to Thee ; 
A.tortured self each must endure 

The heavenly pardon to secure. 

Then, when earth’s pilgrimage is o’er, 
And we have reached the sunlit shore, 
Grant, Lord, that we may join the song, 
And praise Thee with the white-robed throng. 


S. H.C. 


THE SERAPH OF ASSISI. 
I. 


I WILL ask you, dear reader, to go with me for a few 

moments to that sunny land, the home of saints, the centre 
of Catholicity, and witness in fancy a strange spectacle in these 
days of unfaith and injustice. Between the Apennines, that lift 
their cold crests high into the ever blue air, and the sunny plains 
far beneath them that know no winter, there is many a delicious 
valley where Nature, exhausted neither by excessive cold nor heat, 
but invigorated by tempered breezes, brings forth all its wealth of 
fruit and its pomp of flower, and where one would 'imagine men 
would never think of Heaven at all, so perfect is the paradise 
around them. By far the most beautiful of these rich valleys is 
that which is called the Umbrian; and cresting the Umbrian 
valley, looking down upon and crowning all its beauty, is the city 
of Assisi. And, this warm summer day, is it a jubilee pageant 
that stirs the ancient city? Is it some worldly feast of king or 
emperor, or some political triumph, that brings from every part of 
Italy those sun-browned, dust-stained, travel-wearied pilgrims, 
who throng every square and street of the city, and who linger 














The Seraph of Assist. 469 


around it as if unwilling to leave it, and go back to their own 
home? From the sun-parched plain below, where the yellow 
Tiber rolls lazily, from the cold heights of the Apennines, from 
city and village and hamlet these multitudes have come—old men 
at the close of life’s journey, the young with free and agile step, 
children in their mother’s arms, all have come the weary journey, 
and some indication of their business here is that they, for the last 
two days, have thronged the churches, have besieged the confes- 
sionals, have come in thousands to the altar of their God, and have 
crept on hands and feet to a certain modest shrine, around which 
and above which there springs one of the noblest basilicas of 
Europe. What is the meaning of the vast concourse of people? 
What is the secret of the fervent prayers, the deep heartfelt 
contrition, the beautiful commingling of the love and fear of God, 
the ardent communion, the joy and peace which are spread over 
this vast multitude of souls—peace which the world never gives, 
peace that will abide with them many a day to come, and lighten 
the burden of life, and heal its sorrows, and make pleasant many a 
happy day in many a happy home in this holy land of Italy ? 
The secret is that here a child was born seven centuries ago, and 
born like his Master, in a stable, and “his name has gone abroad 
over the world, and the report of him unto the ends of the earth ; ” 
and here in this very shrine, seven centuries ago, he was given the 
the highest favour that mortal man could receive, not for himself, 
but for his people ; for here he stood face to face with Jesus Christ, 
spoke to Him, heard His sacred voice—the voice that stilled the 
storm on the sea of Galilee, that won the heart of Magdalen, that 
made the Apostles burn with divine love. 

It would be a good and profitable thing to bring before our 
minds the life and example of this wonderful saint. I am sure 
they are familiar to you, dear reader; I am sure that the figure of 
this “ wonderful man of God,” worn with fasting and penances, 
his face so withered and pale, but resplendent with the light of 
Heaven that is always present, and those dark signs in his hands 
and feet, the stigmata which were burned into his flesh by the 
Spirit of God. Iam sure that often and often you have studied 
this picture, gazed upon it, wondered at it, prayed God that some 
day you might have the happiness of seeing this “dear St. 
Francis” face to face, and hear him call you, as he called his 

here below, little child—little lamb in the sheepfold of his 


470 The Irish Monthly. 


Master. But there are just three scenes in his life which rivet our 
attention, and make us wonder at the singular graces which flowed 
from the hand of God upon our Saint, and which made him so holy, 
so perfect, so sublime, that the people called him another Christ, 
and believed that the happy days of gospel history had come back 


. It is his native town. Francis, the son of Pica and Bernardone, 

has been known as the gayest and handsomest youth amongst his 
equals in social standing. He has the pleasantest face, and the 
sweetest voice, and the most agreeable manners of all the young 
men of the place. He dresses sumptuously ; and at their revels he 
holds the place of master, and all obey him. Suddenly he retires 
from Assisi, gone no one knows whither, and then as suddenly 
reappears in his native streets. But how changed! That bright, 
handsome face is grave, and worn and disfigured; that exquisite 
raiment is replaced with rags; tattered and wayworn as one who 
has come from a long journey, Francis moves slowly along the 
pavement of the streets. And he Aas come from a long journey! 
He has passed from Egypt into Israel, he has gone out from the 
world of men into the company of Jesus Christ; he has stepped 
from riches into the deepest poverty, and commenced his lifelong 
journey in the painful steps of his Divine Master. His eyes have 
been illumined by the Spirit of God, and his heart has been 
touched by the grace of his Saviour, and he has seen the world and 
its supreme follies by the light that falls from Heaven above, by 
the lurid light that shines from Hell below; and he has abandoned 
all things to find his God, and he has embraced as his spouse and 
Queen that holy Poverty which Christ, our good Master, came 
down from Heaven to embrace, and which He raised up, sanctified 
and ennobled by His Life and Passion and Death. 

But what do the people of Assisi think of him? Well, the 
people of Assisi were like the people of to-day, and every day ; 
and they came to their doors, and hooted him through their streets, 
and called him by that name it is so painful to men to hear—they 
called him “ Thou fool!” 

Francis a fool! Yes, but the days ard coming when God will 
prove that his folly is the wisdom of the Cross. Francis a fool ! 
Yes, but a little while, and he will appedr to the Pontiff in his 
dreams as a pillar of the Church. Fraacis & fool! But there 
will spring from his inspirations and hid prayers generations of 








The Seraph of Assist. | 471 


men who will carry the fire of the love of God, and cast it over 
the entire surface of the earth; who will break down heresies, and 
extend to remotest lands the empire of Jesus Christ. Francis 
a fool! Yes, but long centuries after this people shall have passed 
away, temples will spring to his name, thousands will be olad in 
imitation of him, that rough brown habit will be the favourite 
fashion in the Churoh of God. Francis a fool! Yes, but when 
God’s good time goes by, this fair land of Italy will be covered 
with monasteries and convents where his children will dwell; and 
on the sunburnt plains of Spain, and amongst the vineyards of 
France, and by the Irish rivers, and far away where the warm 
Pacific Ocean washes the distant shores of America, the praises of 
the God whom he loved so tenderly will be chanted by thousands 
from the choirs of churches built in his honour, and by the lips 
of men and women who are fighting the good fight under his 
guidance and in his holy name. Francis a fool! But here around 
Assisi will yet be gathered the grandest school of artists that 
Christendom ever produced ; and holy men, in the pauses of their 
prayers, will take up brush and pencil and paint Crucifixions that 
will make strong men weep, and Madonnas so pure and perfeo 

that Angels alone could dream them; and in the far-off ages— 
that is, in this our dsy—Protestants, and even infidels, will linger 
in Umbria for one purpose alone—to revere the memory of our 
Saint, and to study the marvellous works that have come from the 
hands of those on whose souls his inspirations fell, who embraced 
the same poverty that made him in the eyes of the world a fool, 
and that same simplicity which made him in the eyes of God a 
Saint. 

What a lesson for us ishere! In this noisy, turbulent life of 
ours, with our passionate straining after pleasure, and power, and 
gaiety, how reproachfil is this example of St. Francis, cheerfully 
giving up all these things, and embracing the rough, hard way of 
the Cross, determined to carry it through step by step, after his 
Divine Master, to the end! And in this hard, money-seeking, 
ambitious life of ours, when Mammon once more has been set, up 
in the market-place as the idol of men, when the heaping-up of 
money has become the business, and the only business of the world, 
and when even the just who strive to be perfect are carried away in 
the current of fashion, and strain every fibre of the heart for gold, and 
are miserable and discuieted at the slightest reverse, what a divine 


472 The Irish Monthly. 


comment on their madness is St. Francis, standing with outstretched 
arms, begging at the doors of the churches in Rome, and walking 
the streets of Assisi in his rags! And, to this proud haughty, 
intellectual generation of ours, puffed up with the wisdom that is 
not unto eternal life, what a rebuke is the divine simplicity of our 
Saint, who was the father in the hands of God of a spiritual 
race, before whose handiwork, ancient as it is, the proudest 
intellects of to-day are fain to fall down and worship. 


H. 


The next scene, dear reader, I have to show you is one that has 
been familiar to you from childhood. Francis, the gay, the 
worldly young man, has become transformed into the meek and 
lowly child of God; and, having once given himself to God, he is 
determined to go on with swift strides into perfect communication 
with his Master. He goes out, then, from the society of men 
altogether, he wants to be alone with God. He needs silence and 
solitude to strengthen him, and the immediate presence of the 
Divinity to sanctify him still more. It cannot be had down here 
amongst the busy haunts of men; but there are the blue mountains 
rising above him and afar off; and in their recesses the voice of 
man has never been heard, only the screams of the eagles, and the 
music of the waterfalls ; and sometimes God's majesty descends 
upon them veiled in clouds, as it descended an the Lawgiver on 
Sinai; and Francis thinks he will go up there, and, alone with 
God in prayer, he will try to come nearer and nearer to his Maker, 
and, perhaps, see behind that awful veil that has dropped down 
before the eyes of us poor mortals, lest we should be blinded 
with the effulgence that streams from the “ great white throne,” 
or appalled at the awful mysteries that lie concealed behind it. 
And so, as our Blessed Saviour took with Him Peter and James 
and John when going up the mountain fár his Transfiguration, 
our Saint takes with him three disciples, andjafter a weary journey 
of many days, he ascends his Calvary—the holy mountain, the 
scene of so much austerity and pain, of 50 much miracle and 
and mystery. The landscape is one that is very unlike what he 
has been accustomed to from his childhad. Instead of rich 
valleys and fertile plains, he sees a black ani gloomy mountain, a 
picture of desolation, and the solitude of it id frightful. There are 
dangerous precipices by the way, and caverns where the wild 


hp... 














The Seraph of Asstsi. 473 


beasts hide, and not a trace of vegetation; and, whilst the plains 
below are scorched by the sun, Francis and his companions shiver 
on the lonely mountain. Yet here he is determined to remain, 
and by fastings that will wear him to a skeleton, and austerities 
which appal his brother monks by their severity, and prayer so 
intense that he will be lifted from the earth and remain suspended 
between earth and Heaven, Francis will come to the full knowledge 
of his God, will meet his Saviour face to face, will speak to Him, 
and be answered by Him, and finally become, as it were, trans- 
formed into his Divine Master. 

For many days the sacred intercourse between God and His 
servant went on, Francis praying and crucifying himself, and God 
lifting him higher and higher on those celestial steps that reach to 
the foot of His throne. Several times he had seen Him whom 
kings and prophets desired to see and could not; he has spoken to 
Him suspended in mid-air, as on Thabor; he has spoken to our 
Divine Redeemer, as He sat side by side with him on a rough 
rock in the darkest and gloomiest grotto on the mountain. And 
that something wonderful will come from all this Francis knows 
by a secret inspiration, which tells him that it is God's holy Will 
that His servant should come nearer to Himself, and be, as it were, 
changed into His very likeness. And so he consults the oracles of 
God; and brother Leo opens the holy Gospels thrice, and thrice 
does the holy book open at the history of the Passion of Christ. 
Here, then, was the way in which God’s designs were to be accom- 
plished. And so, for the thousandth time, Francis began. to 
meditate on the Sacred Mysteries connected with the Passion and 
Death of our Divine Saviour. And as they began to unfold them- 
selves before him, and as he began to see in the wounds of the 
Lord Jesus the meaning of sin and Divine justice and Divine love, 
he trembled with fear and humility before God, and his prayer 
ever was: “ Who am I, Lord, and who art Thou?” And at last, 
as the time came near the feast of St. Michael, the holy servant of 
God was vouchsafed a vision like unto those that Ezechiel saw. 

It is a saint, and one of his children, Bonaventure, who tells 
the story, and it is confirmed by the authentic decrees of the 
Church authorities of the time. Francis, the servant and the truly 
faithful minister of Jesus Christ, being in prayer on Mount 
Alvernia, and being raised up towards God by the seraphic fervour 
of his desires, and being transformed by the most tender and 


474 The Irish Monthly. 


affectionate compassion into Him, who by an excess of charity has 
wished to be crucified for us, suddenly saw one of the Seraphim, 
who shot down from Heaven towards him with the swiftness of 
light. And, as he approached, the saint saw that he had six wings, 
shining with the brilliancy of fire, two raised above his head, two 
extended, and between these two a figure of the Crucifixion, which 
was partly veiled by the other wings. Seeing this wonderfal 
vision, Francis was surprised. It was familiar to him, for day by 
day he had bent over his crucifix and studied every wound, every 
scar in the body of His Divine Master; but fancy can never paint 
the reality, and now Francis saw the very ’ figure on which John 
and Magdalen had looked on Calvary, and the contemplation of 
which was the sharp sword which pierced the heart of the Blessed 
Mother. The white body of our Redeemer was before him, 
darkened here and there by the cruel scourge; the head was there, 
bent under its royal crown of thorns; the gaping wound in his 
side was there, from which flowed blood and water unto the 
healing of the nations; and, above all, the gentle, but oh! sorrow- 
ful and anguished face was there, looking down at him with 
pitying eyes; and, though the lips never spoke a word, the merci- 
ful eyes made known to the kneeling saint things which no tongue 
may reveal. The vision vanished; the Saint returned to himself 
again; but lo! the Passion has left its mark upon him, for here in 
his own hands and in his sandaled feet are the marks of the nails, 
and Francis knows that he too is crucified, not by the hands of 
men, but by the love of God himself. 

O wonderful Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ! O Book of 
all the saints! O mystery of all mysteries! There we can read 
the love of God that is incomprehensible. There we can read the 
malice of sin which is indefinite. There we can read the meaning 
of those things which puzzle us so much—God’s justice and man’s 
iniquity. There, above all, can we read the nature and the malice, 
the shame and the crime, of those sins which we ourselves have 
committed in our childhood, in our manhood, in our old age—sins 
countless in their hideous sum, sins that mocked God by the cool- 
ness with which they were committed, sins that lay lightly upon us 
as the down upon a feather, and we went on.our way heedless and 
thoughtless, not caring that every sinful thought was a thorn in 
the brow of Jesus, and every sinful desire a lash on the tender 
flesh of Jesus, and every sinful word was 2 pain to the heart of 


A. 











f 


The Seraph of Assisi. 475 


Jesus, and every sinful deed was a blow that drove the nails 
deeper and deeper through the hands and feet of Jesus, and 
‘fastened Him on the cross, as Francis saw Him, tortured, pain- 
stricken, dying of the wounds inflicted by us and His own dear 
Love. 

Oh, if God would only open our eyes to see the things that 
Francis saw in his vision; if God would only touch our stony 
hearts to understand the anguish and the desolation and the pain 
of Christ in His agony; if God would only teach us the unutter- 
able love of His dying, Son for every soul that was purchased by 
the Precious Blood which fell upon the green grass of Gethsemani 
and Calvary, we would not indeed feel the sacred stigmata as 
Francis felt them, but we would pray God to give us back those 
years that we sent into eternity laden with our sins; or rather, as 
those years cannot be recalled, we would beg of God grace and 
strength to make the time that remains a time of reparation, 
devoted to the faithful service of our crucified Master. May such 
& vision come to us before we die, and with it the grace to under- 
stand its full meaning ! 


Mil. 


Yes, the past is irrevocable. Each golden day rose from 
eternity, and passed into eternity again, laden with our good or 
evil deeds, and is not to be summoned back by any reward. Hach 
golden day was a leaf in the Book of Life, written in black and 
white, which our good angel turned over and sealed down, not to 
be opened again till the day of final judgment. But the future is 
our possession, to make or mar, for better, for worse, and the 
pressing question is, how shall we use it for God’s glory and our 
own salvation. ‘Well, the life of every saint is a track of light, 
which, if we follow, we shall come to the dawning of eternal day. 
The life of the humblest servant of God is a Gospel, containing 
many and many a lesson of wisdom unto perfect sanctity and 
holiness. And the life of such a saint as St. Francis is so holy, so 
wise, go sublime, that we may ponder over it every day of our 
lives, and yet find new marvels of sanctity, new mysteries of God’s 
omnipotent love. . 

Yet here I can fancy some one saying: “ But St. Francis lived 
seven centuries ago, and the world has advanced in many ways 
since then. Don’t you think that the age of evangelical virtues, 


476 The Irish Monthly. 


the age of mysteries and miracles, of supernatural visions and 
supernatural austerities, is gone for ever? Don’t you think the 
example of a more modern, and less ecstatic saint, would better 
meet the exigencies of our time?” Yes, certainly, if God had 
come to terms with the world! Yes, if a truce had been made 
between sin and grace! Yes, if God had revised His Gospel, and 
expunged from it those terrible things which His Divine Son had 
said against the world: “TIT came not to bring peace, but the 
sword.” Yes! if there were not at this moment a terrible conflict 
raging above us, and around us, and within us, between God and 
Satan, good and evil, light and darkness, virtue and vice, sin and 
grace, Christ and Belial. But we are engaged in such a fight; 
and, as soldiers going to battle fortify themselves by tales of high 
valour and victory exhibited and won by those who are gone before 
them, so we, by reading the virtues of our saint, may strengthen 
our souls for this conflict under the standard of the Cross of 
Christ. 

And, strange to say, in this age of progress and education, in 
this age of mammon and ungodliness, in this age of infidelity, 
when God is ignored and religion despised, there is a fascination 
about the life of St. Francis, which even freethinkers cannot resist. 
It is a romance of simplicity, of humility, of charity, that will be 
read with pleasure centuries after we, I hope, shall have seen the 
Saint in Heaven. His love of Nature and of this wonderful world, 
his love of everything that God had made, because the hand of 
God had touched it, is inexpressibly beautiful. He was a child in 
the picture gallery of God, and every day opened to him fresh 
revelations of his Father’s mercy, and his Father’s power. The 
firmament flecked with clouds, or blazing with stars, was the open 
Book of Omnipotence. The earth, so varied and beautiful, was 
his home which his Father had made and decorated for His child. 
The winds were to him a sweet psalmody; and the hoarse roar of 
the ocean was a voice from eternity. The flowers were beautiful in 
his eyes, for God had painted them. No wonder they bowed their 
lovely heads to him ashe passed. And the dumb beasts, whom he 
' called his brothers and sisters, came to him, as they came to the 
martyrs in the Roman amphitheatre, and fawned upon him, and 
the birds sang with him the praises of their Maker, I know 
nothing half so beautiful in all the legends of the saints as that 
story of St. Francis, who, after the evening vespers in the choir, 





The Seraph of Assisi. 477 


came out into the soft twilight, and hearing the nightingale sing, 
challenged the bird to sing with him the praise of God; and they 
sang’ alternately, strophe by strophe, the-Saint chanting the 
psalms of that sweet singer, David, and the bird chanting the 
the melodies his Maker taught him, until at last, wearied and tired, 
the nightingale sought the shelter of his nest, and the Saint went 
on through the night into the dawn, celebrating the praises of his 
Creator. And, not only with the gentle creatures of God, but even 
with those that are fierce and untutored, the servant of God was 
uniformly mild, and invariably succeeded in taming and subduing 
them. The wolf of Gubbio he drew from his forests and brought 
into village, where, fed from house to house, he renounced his 
fierce habits, and became docile as a domestic animal. To the wild 
bandits that stopped him to plunder him, he promised everything 
if they would give up blaspheming God. And when he had to 
undergo a terrible operation by fire a little time before his death, 
he addressed that terrible element in these touching words: “My 
brother fire, the Lord made thee useful and beautiful: be thou 
gentle to me in this hour.” 

And so, with that singular simplicity and gentleness, and love 
of all things that come from the hand of God, and live beneath His 
' gmile, he succeeded in undertakings where learned men would have 
utterly failed. He preached from the depth of his own great heart, 
and his words went direct to the great heart of humanity, and 
pride bowed down before his majestic humility, and wealth abased 
itself before his sublime poverty, and he stood before kings and 
princes with the same sublime composure that he maintained 
amongst his brethren, and he walked through palaces and lordly 
places with the same indifference as the air would wander through 
them or the bird would fly. And the people looked on him asa 
being not of this world at all—as a spirit clothed in the frailty 
of flesh for a moment to teach the world that after all the 
soul is man, and not the body or its raiment. Nor can we find 
fault with the popular faith, which, to quote the words of a Pro- 
testant lady,.Mrs. Oliphant, tells us: “ Hé lies under the great 
altar, but no one knows the precise spot of his grave, and a 
mysterious legend has crept about, whispered in the twilight for 
ages, that far underneath, lower even than the subterranean church, 
the great Saint, erect and pale, with sacred drops of blood upon 
his five wounds, and an awful silence around him, waits, rapt in 


478 The Irish Monthly. 


some heavenly meditation, for the moment when he, like his Lord, 
and with his Lord, shall arise again.” 

For us, however, bis life has a deeper lesson. It is a perfect 
following of Christ. Take the holy gospels; and mind, the holy 
gospels are not obsolete or antiquated. The gospel teachings are 
as true to-day as when Christ spoke his words of wisdom by the 
sea of Galilee, or on the mountain. By the gospels we shall be 
judged. Take the holy gospels, and place side by side with them 
the life of our Saint, and you will find that every thought, and 
word, and deed, of his life correspond with their high teaching. 
Contempt for everything that does not lead to God—there is the 
one great maxim of his life. Sacrifice of everything that kept 
him from God—there was his one great practice. Hatred of the 
world that hates God—here was one great passion. The complete 
crushing of every sinful inclination—here was his perpetual study. ' 
To spread in every soul love for his Divine Master—here was his 
daily task. 'To save sinners—here was his one ambition. To be 
crucified with Christ—here was his glory, as with St. Paul. Oh! 
how that blessed figure rises up before us, perpetually rebuking our 
coldness, our sensuality, our pride. Oh! may God grant that, 
as Christ put the marks of His own dear wounds in the body of 
our Saint, so our holy Father would print upon our souls some 
faint image of His own great sanctity. If we cannot embrace 
his absolute poverty, let us love it at least in spirit, for blessed are 
the poor in spirit. Let us practise it by honouring, loving and 
venerating the poor, who are the special friends of God. We 
cannot practise his awful austerities; but here are passions to be ' 
daily kept under, here are mortifications to be daily endured, here 
are crosses to be daily borne. Every soul has its own cross; let 
it bear it meekly for the love of God and St. Francis. We are 
not called to bear the stigmata as our Saint; but if we are faithful 
to Christ, we have a daily martyrdom to endure in the struggle 
with the world and ourselves, and that martyrdom will leave its 
scars and wounds upon us that will be to us a glory hereafter, as 
the wounds of the martyrs shine brilliantly in Heaven. Visions 
will not be sent to us—angels will not visit us—Christ will not 
appear to us—what do I say? I am wrong—quite wrong. 

For soon, very soon, for man’s life is but a vapour that 
appeareth for a little time,” that strange revelation will be made 
to us which is made to every child of Adam. Soon, very soon, 


The Seraph of Assisi. | 479 


for “‘ man’s life is but a dream of him that awaketh from sleep,” 
the veil will be lifted, and, in a silence unbroken by the levity of 
men, each lonely soul in turn shall find itself face to face with 
the Son of Man. The dream of our life is realised. There is the 
silent and gentle Jesus whom we have known. The wounds are 
in His hands and feet and side, as the seraphio Francis saw them, 
between the wings of the seraph on the mountain. His eyes are 
looking into ours, scanning every feature of our souls to see if we 
are known to Him. Oh! what a fearful thing it will for us if 
Jesus does not recognise us then! if, seeing in our souls only the 
marks of our pride and sensuality, the smile dies from His face, 
His hands are stretched to repel us if icy and cold and terrible 
the words come from His sacred lips: “ Amen, I say to you, I 
never knew you.” But happy, thrice happy, is this other soul! 
As the mother lingers over every lineament in the face of her long- 
lost child, so do the eyes of Jesus linger over the features of the 
soul that has loved Him. He knows them well! He has seen 
them at the morning Mass, at the evening, devotions. He has 
seen in the twilight, when, unseen by men, that soul crept into 
the darkness of His temple, and, in loneliness and sorrow, prayed 
to Him in His Tabernacle. And, now, it is all over! ‘“ The winter 
is past; the rain is over and gone; the flowers have appeared in 
our land; arise, make haste, my love, and come.” And Jesus 
stretches forth the strong arm of His Omnipotence, and gently 
lifts it over the dark stream of death, and places it in the eternal 
light that glitters round His Throne. That such a vision may 
oome one day to us, may our holy Francis pray, that Christ may 
grant ! 


P. A. SHEEHAN. 


480 


The Irish Monthly. 


MEMBERS OF THE CONGREGATION. 


O beautiful sunbeam, straying 
In through the wide church door, 
I wish I was with you, playing 
Down there on the cool stone floor. 
For I am so tired of sitting 
Upright and stiff and still, 
And you, you go dancing, flitting 
Gaily, wherever you will; 
And you've nothing to do but glisten, 
And no one is ever vexed 
Because you forget to listen, 
Or can’t remember the text. 


Dear sunbeam, I’m pondering, pondering — 
Were they fast asleep, the flowers, 

When you came on your bright wings wandering 
To earth in the morning hours ? 

And where have you since been roaming 
The long, long hot day through ? 

Will you welcome the purple gloaming 
That means “going home ” to you? 


Have you been to the river, I wonder ? 
The river shining and wide, 
Where coots dart flashingly under, 
And water-weeds rock with the tide. 
Did you see the big daisies bobbing ? 
Were the speedwells like bits of sky? 
Did you hear the sad grasses sobbing 
Whenever the wind went by? 


Dear sunbeam, I'll be so lonely 
When you have gone quite away, 
And even now you are only 
A faint gold splash on the grey. 
Ah! at last the sermon is over ; 
I know the text—‘‘ God is Light.” 
Wait a minute, sunbéam, you rover, 
And let-me bid you Good-night. 
Frances Wynme. 





Mike Dunne’s Cure. 481 


MIKE DUNNE'’S CURE. 
Y ESTERDAY Mat Dunne had brought home his wife, and 


to-day the home-coming was the one subject of conversation 
among the neighbours—for the bride belonged to another part of 
the country, and the first they had seen of her was at the merry- 
making last night. ‘A fine woman,” was a universal comment. 
But there were cavillers who declared that for all her good looks 
she had “a hard face,” and evil prophets who “ spaed ” that “ the 
grey mare would be the best horse ” in the Dunne household ; and 
others again, who whispered with serious face that the newly- 
wedded pair were cousins, and that luck never came yet of such a 
marriage. 

While the village gossiped, Mrs. Dunne was contentedly 
settling herself in her new home. The farm-house stood on the 
outskirts of the village, separated from it by a long strip of old- 
fashioned garden, where peonies flamed and stock scented the air, 
and carnations spread wherever they listed, and roses queened it 
over them all, showing their fitness for high places by climbing the 
pointed gable even to the highest of the twé latticed windows. 
There was an old-fashioned porch to the door, and altogether 
Dunne’s farm-house had an uncommonly pretty exterior, asserting 
even in its looks its superiority to the village houses, whose 
denizens were the very smallest of small farmers (when they were 
farmers at all), while Mat Dunne owned or rather leased a goodly 
number of acres. On the opposite side to the garden a path ran 
up to the chapel that stood on the hill above. Old Mrs. Dunne 
had kept its key, and always seen to its order and oleanliness ; and 
when the priest said Mass there, he breakfasted in Dunne’s. That 
was no small mark of distinction, and the new Mrs. Dunne, who 
liked to stand a little above the neighbours, and had never had much 
opportunity of doing it when she was Brigid Magrath, was very 
ready to perform this act of hospitality, though rumour began to 
say of her, before she was long settled in her new home, that she 
was “close” to the last degree both in housekeeping and—what 
. was looked upon as worsc—in almsgiving. Rumour, however, did 
not carry back to Mrs. Dunne public disapproval of this trait in her 
character, perhaps because of another equally unpopular-—a certain 

Vou. xvi. No. 207. 84 





482 | The Irish Monthly. 


‘‘ stand-off air” in her bearing towards; her humbler neighbours. 
And so she went her way undisturbed by the criticism that never 
reached her ears. The critics, too, after a while grew tired of dis- 
cussing her. Soon, however, they began to whisper again, and in 
truth this time they had something to whisper about. 

“Her own girl, Mary Malone, tould it to me,” asserted one of 
the whisperers, Mrs. Daly, when doubt was cast upon the tale. 

‘It’s little time she has for gostherin’, then,” said the 
listener. 

é Who's that?” asked a newcomer who had heard the last 
words. 

“Why, Mary Malone, Mrs. Dunne’s girl,” was the answer. 
“Kitty, bring out a creepy here. Sit down a while, Catherine. I 
didn’t lay eyes on ye this month o’ Sundays.” 

The first speakers were seated on a stone bench outside Mrs. 
Daly’s house—an unmannerly house that turned its back to the 
village and its gable to the road, and yet chivalric in that it 
secured the trio at its front door from obtrusive passers-by. 

é Did you hear what happened them beyant, Catherine? ” 
inquired Mrs. Daly, when Catherine had seated herself comfort- 
ably. 

é The Lord take care of us all,” ejaculated her first confidante. 

“The ould man’s not dead, surely,” said Catherine, looking 
from one to the other. 

é Whisht! No! Ill tell ye every word iv it, but don’t spake 
iv it again, for fear it “ud do harm to Mary, poor girl. Well, the 
night iv the fair iv Drum Mat wasn’t home till late, and, iv 
coorse, there wor things for Mary to do afther him, an’ the 
misthress went to bed. She was afther hangin’ up a mug on the 
dhresser an’ was turnin’ roun’ to rake the fire, when ”—[“ God 
take care of us!” muttered Rosie; “Amen!” answered Catherine] 
—‘ what did she see sittin’ at the fire but a beautiful young girl, 
with fair hair, all wavy, hangin’ about her, and her head down on 
her hand, sorrowful-like. Mary turned an’ run to bed as quick as 
ever she could.” 

“é No wondher,”’ said Rosie, while Catherine crossed herself. 

“You may well say it,” said Mrs. Daly. ‘ Well, to make a 
long story short, Mary tould what she seen the next day, and the 
ould man gev ordhers that the fire was never to be tuk down at 
night, an’ that there was always a good fire to be left.” 


Mike Dunne’s Cure. 483 


Such was the story that was whispered about for a while, and 
talked of louder when Mary left Dunne’s at the end of her half- 
year. The new girl came, and soon heard the story, and, more- 
over, added a sequel to it. She had got no directions about 
leaving on a good fire, and, in fact, it was raked every night just 
as usual. Heads were shaken and looks exchanged at this infor- 
mation. | 

é 'Throth, an’ she’d have just as much luck if she left the bit o” 
fire,” said one. 

é An’ if she wasn’t so tight about a han’ful of male to a poor 
woman,” said another. 

Perhaps the prophets were right, for as time went on heavy 
troubles came to the Dunne household. Old Tom Dunne died, 
but that was a long-expected event. Other and sore, sore sorrow 
came, stealing from Mrs. Dunne some of the good looks, and with 
them much of the “ hardness” that had accompanied them. Her 
first child had died just as it could laugh in her face and call her 
name. And of six others every one had been snatched, sooner or 
later, from her clinging arms—every one except the last. No 
wonder she watched that one night and day, and prayed, with her 
very heart looking out of her supplicating eyes, that he might be 
spared her. Perhaps it was gazing at so many little dead faces 
that had softened the once sharp glances of those eyes; weeping 
over so many little coffins that had lessened the hardness of the 
mouth; speaking heart-broken words of love to little ears that 
would never hearken to human voice again that had taken the old 
imperious harshness from voice and tongue. And, perhaps, it was 
parting with so much that was precious that had opened the 
niggardly hand, nay the niggardly heart, too, so that the platter 
of meal, less stingy in measure than of old, was given with a 
sympathy that was of itself a “‘ charity.” 

So’ we need not be surprised that, when one bitter winter’s 
night a poor woman with a child in her arms begged a shelter, 
Mrs. Dunne bade her enter with hearty eagerness. The woman 
seemed wretchedly ill, as well as wet and cold; but the child was so 
strong and healthy, that Mrs. Dunne, as she noticed it, looked with 
a sigh at her own puny boy. 

“Ts it far now to Knockmore?” the woman asked with a 
marked northern accent. 

They told her the distance—many a day’s journey for a 
pedestrian. 


484 The Irish Monthly. 


“‘T wish to God I never left it,” she said sorrowfully. Then 
in words often interrupted by a short, sharp cough, she told them 
how she had married a soldier a few years before. 

“Two years ago, an’ I was on’y a slip then, for all I look old 
now—I won’t be long in it. If I could struggle home an’ lay 
little Mary with her grandfather, I wouldn’t care how soon the 
Lord "id take me.” . 

She spoke in a loud, monotonous voice, her dry eyes gazing at 
the fire, as if too weary even to weep. 

That night Brigid wakened with a loud moaning sounding in 
her ears. Her first thought was of her boy, but he was sleeping 
calmly. She listened, and finding the sound came from the 
kitchen, hastened there. The poor woman lay by the fire where 
they had given her a bed of straw, and a coverlet. She was gasp- 
ing for breath, and calling piteously between every spasm for “a 
priest, a priest.” Brigid saw that she was dying, and had soon 
despatched Mat for the priest. She laid the frightened child in 
her own warm bed, and then she and the girl knelt by the dying 
woman, giving her what small relief they could, and saying Rosary 
after Rosary that the priest might “ overtake her.” 

He was only in time, and when the new day dawned she had 
laid down the burden that had been too heavy for her to bear. 

“She couldn’t bear the one death, an’ the little poverty, an” 
she havin’ the child,” thought Mrs. Dunne wonderingly, with her 
own troubles in mind. 

The strange woman had not told her name, and Knockmore 
was very distant, so they buried her in their own litttle churchyard. 

é“ Mat,” said his wife, when the funeral was over, and things 
put to nghts, “ what do you think about the child? ” 

“ Throth I don’t know,” said Mat, disconsolately. ‘ I suppose 
Father Byrne id write an’ ax about the grandfather.” 

é“ But,” broke in his wife, “we don’t know any name.” 

“ Tí there’s nothin else for it then, I suppose it must go to 
the workhouse.” THe said it unwillingly enough. That was the 
last resource. 

A neighbour who-had taken care of the child all the morning, 
came in with it now in her arms. 

“Thank ye, Mrs. M‘Cartney,” said Brigid. “TI take her 
now.” 

Seeing she had broken in on a domestic conclave, Mrs. M‘Cartney 
discreetly withdrew. — ~ 


Mike Dunne’s Cure. 485 


Mrs. Dunne waited till the door was shut. Then holding the 
the child a little from her, and looking at it all the time, she 
began : “ Mat.” 

“Yes, Brigid.” SO 

“Suppose we kept the child ourselves.” She dashed through 
the sentence, looking at the baby all the time. 

Mat took out his pipe, looked at his wife, then put it in again 
and waited to hear more. 

“ God sent us full an’ plenty, Mat,” said she, “an” he took 
them that was for it. We ’ill never miss a bit to the girsha, an’ 
sure I’ll be glad to have her about the house when I am ould 
an’ stiff.” 

In her heart she had another thought. She had been hard 
and uncharitable in the old days, and God had punished her. She 
would do this act of charity now, and maybe He would reward 
her by sparing her own child. She said nothing of this to Mat, 
but it was not hard to persuade him to agree to her wishes, and 
the little one became an inmate of the house. 

She grew up a fine, handsome girl, strong of frame, and from 
what one could judge of her character at seventeen, more capable 
of battling with the world than her poor mother had been. 
Brigid had grown to love her almost as much as her own son. 
She looked upon her as a kind of hostage. She felt as if she were 
indebted to her for her own son. And yet, when she looked at 
the girl, and noted her strong limbs and healthy colour, she 
always glanced with the same sigh as on that first night at her boy. 
He had been spared to her, indeed, but he was a cripple, and as 
the people phrased it, an “innocent.” Worse, doctors said he was 
incurable. Yet, looking at him, his face was a handsome one, nay, 
it looked intelligent, and his disposition, unlike many others 
similarly afflicted, was singularly gentle. These facts strengthened 
a hope that was growing up in the mother’s heart. She had been 
a widow now for many years, and her life’s sorrows, this ever- 
present cross of her son’s infirmity above all, had broken her once 
robust health. So as she watched Mary moving about, doing with 
deft. hands the household tasks she had herself trained her to, and 
noted how carefully and gently she tended Mike, she thought to 
herself, if only Mary and he were married, how happily she would 
meet the death she so dreaded now, not for herself, but for him. 
What would become of him, her darling whom she had won from 


486 The Irish Monthly. 


God, whom she had prayed for with such intensity of yearning in 
the early days, and wept over with such heart-wrung tears, when 
at last she “ gave in” to “his affliction.” 

So one night when Mike was gone to bed, and everything 
ready for the night, she called Mary to her, and told her of the 
plan she had formed in her own mind. 

é There's not one for the place when I’m gone,” she said, 
“but himself; and who'll take care of him? What’ll become of 
him P PBs 

The words were few, and in themselves cold enough, but all 
the anguish of her heart was in her voice, and Mary, mute up to 
this with astonishment, and rather inclined to be indignant, was 
touched for the moment. But, was it to be all him—what about 
her? Wealth she would have to be sure, but who was to repay 
her the care she was to bestow on him ? 

“ His face is like a picture,” she said, continuing her thinking, 
but speaking aloud now, “and I wouldn’t mind the lameness if 
he—” she stopped, she did not like to say the word that was on 
her lips to the mother, who caught her meaning, however, and 
broke out bitterly— 

“ An” would I care if he had any sense at all? I took you in 
when there was no place for ye but the workhouse, an’ I gave ye 
shelter an’ food an’ clothin’, an’ thrated ye like me own child, an’ 
never cast it up to ye, an’ now ye wouldn't, do that much—ye 
wouldn’t promise to take care iv me boy when I’m gone, the way 
I took care iv ye when ye had no one else. An’ wouldn’t ye 
have the whole place undher ye? Sure he could never intherfare.” 

So she continued, putting forth every argument she thought 
could affect the girl. She was in part successful. Mary’s pity for 
the mother’s distress, her gratitude, and the advantages that 
would accrue to her from the proposed union (for her northern 
descent made her fully alive to the latter consideration), all might 
have weighed down her dislike to marriage with a cripple and an 
idiot, but for a certain spice of Bohemianism, a longing for variety 
in her, that she must have inherited from her soldier father, as she 
did her instinct of thrift from her Ulster mother. However that 
might be, it had given her hours of discontent with the sameness 
of her every-day life, and filled idle moments with gorgeous 
visions so dazzling that one could discern no definite form. Such 
visions crowded on her mind now, shapeless as ever, but so brilliant 





_ Mike Dunne’s ‘Cure. 487 


. and glowing, that, thinking how acquiescence would shut out the 
possibilities of them from her life, she could only say in answer to 
Mrs. Dunne, one low-murmured “ I couldn’t.”’ 

Next day a neighbour came in, looking for some of Mrs. 
Dunne’s famous hatching eggs. 

‘*Mike’s not well?” she said, interrogatively, noticing the 
place he generally sat in empty. 

“é No,” said Mary, laconically. 


“ God help him, poor boy ! ” said Mrs. M‘Cartney, commiser- 


atingly. 

As sho took the eggs from Mary, she saw that the latter had 
been crying. 

é“ Mrs. Dunne’s hard to live wit’ an odd time,” she said, think- 
ing to console Mary for some little sharpness on Mrs. Dunne’s 
part, “ but don’t fall out over a crass word, agrah.”” And she took 
up her eggs and departed. 

A week passed, and those who had occasion to visit Dunne’s 
farm remarked that Mike was not in his usual seat. Mary an- 
swered all neighbourly enquiries about his health rather shortly, 
and if it were the girl that was asked, she could only say “ she 
didn’t know.” But when another week came, and still no sign of 
Mike, people began to grow shy of making any remark about him 
at the farm, though his absence and Mary’s curtness began to form 
subjects of conversation through the village. Soon a piece of 
genuine information gave them food for something more than 
surmises, or rather it gave them a substantial foundation for such 
surmises. . 

Coming from Mass on Sunday morning, Mrs. M‘Cartney had 
called in to ask for Mike. Dunne’s girl was just in before her, 
and Mary, with her hat on ready to go to the later Mass in Drum. 
beg, was giving directions about the dinner. 

“God save ye!” said Mrs. M‘Cartney. 

“é God save ye kindly,” answered Mary. 

é An’ how is Mike the day ? Hé's havin’ a sore tum, if it was 
the will of God.” 

Mary turned away quickly, saying with sudden impetuoaity : 

é There's no use tellin’ lies about it, Mrs. M‘Cartney. Mike’s 
away!” 

“ Lord!” was Mrs. M‘Cartney’s first exclamation of mingled 
astonishment and incredulity. “ Why, how could he go away an’ 
us not to see him goin’ ?” she continued. 


488 The Irish Monthly. 


“ Well, he’s gone any way, an’ if I don’t hurry I’1l be late for 
Mass. There’s the priest gone. Good morning, Mrs. M‘Cartney.”’ 

And away she hurried. 

Mrs. M‘Cartney would have begun a low-voiced catechism of 
the girl, had not the latter pointed meaningly to Mrs. Dunne’s bed- 
room. ‘The visitor understood, and with a disappointed shake of 
her head, took her departure. 

“Mike Dunne was away,” Mary had said on Sunday morning. 
“ With the Good People,” the village had universally added by 
Sunday night. 

It was such a tale as they had all heard, but not one had 
known from actual experience. No wonder that men and women 
formed into groups this pleasant May evening to discuss it, speak- 
ing always with respectful reticence of the “ Good People,” but 
with more or less condemnation of Mrs. Dunne. What call had 
she marrying her first cousin? said the vofeens; no wonder she 
had trouble all the days of her life. And wofeens and all chimed 
in when blame was cast upon her want of hospitality to them that 
looked for it. 

Father Doherty, riding past, came upon one of these groups. 
It was May, as we know, and they were to have service in their 
chapel. The parish priest was absent, and Father Doherty, having 
to say a second Mass in a chapel at the other end of the parish, 
had not breakfasted that morning at Dunne’s. Consequently he 
was surprised when in answer to his cheerful “ Any news? ” some- 
one said : 

“ Except about poor Mike Dunne, yer reverence.” 

“ Mike Dunne! ” he echoed.. “Is he ill?” 

é "Worse nor that, God take care of us!” observed another. 

é Not dead, surely,” said the priest, turning towards the last 
speaker. ‘“ Though ’twould be well for him, poor boy.” 

é“ That's God's thruth, yer reverence,” said he who had spoken 
last. | 
“ But what i the matter?” inquired Father Doherty, looking 
round for an answer. 

There was a little hesitation before an old man said slowly : 

é Well, yer reverence, they say he’s away wit’ the fairies, God 
speed them ! ” . 

‘Well, that’s beats all!” said Father Doherty, giving them 
this phrase of their own with a good-humoured smile, over his 
shoulder as he rode away. 











Mike Dunne’s Cure. 489 


They watched him as he dismounted at Dunne’s door, and 
entered the house, and then sauntered towards the chapel. 

From that day, for many a long year, no more was seen or 
heard in the village of Mike Dunne. Whatever might be his life 
now, it could hardly be more different from the old life than was 
the mode of existence Mrs. Dunne began now from her former 
life. 

A week after Mike’s disappearance was made known, Mrs. 
Dunne, with a white cap (a matronly head-dress she had never 
before assumed) and a blue cloak, under which she carried a small 
bundle, left her house so early that only the farm labourers, going 
to their work, saw her departure. 

“he's gone to St. Patrick’s Well to make a station,” Mary 
told all inquirers. 

“ For Mike ?”’ 

“ For Mike.” 

“ Just that. But she’s not goin’ to walk it.” 

“ She is, then,” Mary would say. 

“The Lord an’ His Blessed Mother help the crathur! ” said 
one sympathising neighbour, and Mary said “amen” with her 
eyes full of tears. 

. “Throth she’s not so hard-hearted afther all,” the neighbour 
said, when she told the story. 

Mary was naturally undemonstrative, another of her northern 
traits, and the more impulsive people among whom she lived had 
set it down to want of feeling. 

After that Mrs. Dunne was seldom athome. That first pilgrim- 
age was but the beginning of a series of similar ones. Often she 
did not return for months, but went on from one “ Holy Well ” to 
another, always on foot, carrying her simple necessaries in a 
little bundle; sometimes asking a night’s lodging at a farm- 
house; sometimes praying for it in a town. If she found a 
Mission going on in the town, she stayed and attended it, 
‘“‘sthrivin’ to make herself fit to be heard by God.” For she 
never doubted that one day she would be heard. When she did 
come home, she never said a word about the household management. 
She accepted quietly a thousand little attentions and comforts 
that she would have repulsed with a laugh years ago. 

So it was that Mary came to have the entire management of 
the farm. A widow, whose son had lately brought home a bride: 





490 The Irish Monthly. 


was glad to accept Mary’s offer of a comfortable home in return for 
what help she needed about the house, and the two lived the 
quietest of lives. Mary often wondered “what had come over 
her.” How she had longed for anything to take her out of this 
life, that even then with Mrs. Dunne bustling about, and Mike 
to be looked after, had seemed so deadly monotonous! Now she 
might lift the latch and walk out any day; but she had never the 
smallest wish to do so. Perhaps the quietude came from a sense 
of remorse, a desire to make atonement for what after all was no 
fault of hers. But the sight of the mother’s sorrow had made her 
feel that she had been cruelly hard and ungrateful. Nay, she felt 
actually guilty. How dared she be there, usurping the place of 
the lost boy? And so, while she devoted herself to the duties 
that so strangely devolved upon her, she prayed no less earnestly 
than the pilgrim mother. Let what God would happen to her, but 
restore to that seeking, sorrowful, hoping mother, the darling of 
her heart. Uttered many a time in words, the same prayer went 
up from her heart a hundred times a day, as she looked at the empty 
chair, as she came across one little memento or another, bringing 
back with sharp distinctness the thought of the helpless boy, with 
his sad, handsome face. The thought of him was not let die, or 
fade to a dim memory, as if he himself had been dead, for nothing 
of his was put out of sight—everything was there waiting as for 
one who might enter at any moment. 

So things went on, and it was April in the seventh year after 
Mike had gone away. The sun was shining brightly after a 
showery morning, and Mary and the Widow Doran, were getting 
their pails ready for the milking, when Mrs. Dunne came in, look- 
ing so white and worn, that Mary stepped towards her in alarm. 
She had been changing, indeed, for many a day. How could it 
be otherwise, considering the life she led P Seven years ago she 
had thought she was dying, and had been jealously careful of 
' her life, for her son’s sake. For his sake, too, she had ever since 
been just as reckless of it, and the recklessness was telling on her 
at last. However, she smiled when Mary remarked on her evident 
illness, saying that she was only tired. 

é You'll go away no more now, mother,” the girl said, coax- 
ingly. “You're not able for such journeys. Sure there ye have 
the chapel beside ye, an’ ye can go up an’ pray in it all day if ye 
like, an’ then you'll have a comfortable bit an’ a good bed to come 


‘Mike Dunne’s Cure. 491 


home to instead of havin’ to walk a couple of mile to the Lord 
knows what sort of a bed or a male.” 

‘‘'There’s a mission goin’ to be in Drum the first week in 
May, an’ I’m goin to that, with God's help.” - 

She said it in such a way that Mary saw there was little use 
in arguing the matter. 

“Well, you'll stay till it’s time to go there, anyway,” said 
Mary. 
éI will, dear. An’ now I think I'll go to bed.” 

Mary was so alarmed at Mrs. Dunne’s obvious unfitness for even 
the short journey to Drum, that she slipped out after a little to 
consult Mrs. M‘Cartney, a proceeding which considerably as- 
tonished that matron, for Mary was not wont to consult anyone 
about anything. However, she promised to help Mary in trying 
to dissuade Mrs. Dunne from the proposed journey. She came 
in the next day, and, startled at the change in the poor woman’s 
appearance, at the first opportunity proceeded to put her promise 
into practice. 

“It’s fit for yer bed, ye are,” she declared, “ an” there's where 
ye ought to be. God bless ye, an’ stop at home, like a sensible 
woman, an’ let Mary take care iv ye, and don’t be killin’ yourself. 
God help us, if you’re not fit to go straight to Heaven.” 

But no argument was of any avail. She would be better after 
this rest, she said. And, indeed, it seemed as if she did grow 
better. Still Mary’s heart grew sad, and neighbours shook their 
heads forebodingly as she walked—so feeble now—through the 
village two or three days before the first of May, on her way to 
Drum. 

The Rosary was over on the first May evening in the village 
church, and the people were loitering homewards. Lines of girls 
arm-in-arm, discussing their new summer print gowns. Groups of 
young men, so boisterously engrossed about the last football match 
as to forget the damsels. Older men sagaciously considering how 
the last Land Bill would affect them. Matrons, last of all, step- 
ping with matronly slowness, nay, standing now and again, in the 
earnestness of their discourse about the price of butter and fowl, 
and last week’s market, and the high price of cows they wanted to 
buy, and the poor price for pigs they wanted to sell, and the 
“ notions” of their girls, and—what was that cart doing at Dunne’s 
door P and there was Mary beckoning to them. Mrs. M‘Cartney 


492 The Irish Monthly. 


hastened forward from the group, in time to see a tall young man 
lift from the cart a seemingly inanimate figure, and bear it into 
the house. She, guessing what had happened, remained to help 
Mary. The others went slowly on, the priest passing them before 
they came to Dunne’s. They saw the man stop him, and bring 
him in, and as they walked past, the same young man was un- 
yoking the horse. 

One of the women crossed herself as she passed. ‘Glory be to 
God,” she said, when they had gone a few steps. “ That's Mike 
Dunne!” 

Most of them laughed at her that night. But those who called 
next day to ask for Mrs. Dunne, and met “ the man with the cart,” as 
they had up to this designated him, said he had Mike Dunne’s face, 
though grown more manlike. ‘“They’d have known it in a 
hundred.” But this man was neither a cripple nor an imbecile. 
His limbs were straight as any of their own, and when he spoke 
{with Mike Dunne’s voice) there was intelligence as acute as their 
own prompting the words. But by never a word did they hint 
that they had known him in any other state, and he volunteered 
no information, save that he had seen his mother faint in the 
church at Drum, and had borrowed a cart to bring her home. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Dunne, though recovered from her fainting 
fit, did not regain full consciousness. She called those about her 
by their names, but showed plainly that she had lost her old 
clearness of intellect. 

To the frequent good-natured inquiries for her there was 
always the one answer—“ No better.” At last they carried her 
out to the kitchen—she could not move of herself—and placed her 
in Mike’s old chair. 

é Throth an’ he’s the born image of her,” said those who saw 
her there, “even if he is a man an’ she a woman. Ye don’t 
notice it in him till ye see it in her, an’ thin ye’d think it was his 
face got ould.” 

‘“Whativer ailed Mike Dunne,” said an oracular old gentle- 
man, punctuating every word with a punch of his stick. ‘“ What- 
iver ailed Mike Dunne ails his mother now.” 

‘‘Throth, it looks like it,”’ said another. 

“How could Mike Dunne, that wasn’t able to sthretch out his 
leg, or put a foot on the flure, be able to walk now with the best iv 
ye? That's not for nothin’.” 


Mike Dunne’s Cure. 493 


The same view prevailed among the women, who, moreover, 
speculated on the chances of Mike and Mary “ makin’ a match iv 
it.” Some scouted the idea of his marrying without money. 

“ Heh! he'd be well off if he got a girl like her without any 
fortune. She’s as good a manager, ay, an’ as good a farmer, as 
himself.” 

é“ Himself, Catherine! Why, what on God's earth could he 
know about farmin’? Sure the ‘Good People’ didn’t tache it to 
him !”’ 

There was a subdued laugh at this, and a whispered “It’s not 
good to be jokin’ about them.”’ 

Meanwhile, now that things had become as settled as they were 
likely to be at the farm, Mary began to think of taking her 
departure. 

“‘T wanted thravellin’ long ago,” she thought. “Maybe I'll 
have enough of it now.” 

Truth to tell, she felt her very heart-strings wrung at the 
thought of parting from the only home and the only mother she 
had ever known; and, strange, at the thought of seeing no more 
this Mike whom she had long ago rejected, yet for whose return 
she had prayed those seven years, “for his mother’s sake,” she 
told herself now—she had never troubled why long ago. 

However, she made everything ready for her departure, and 
arranged with Pat M‘Cartney that he should take her box to 
Drum next market day; that was Saturday, this was Tuesday. 

When milking was over and the stirabout pot on, and Mike 
smoking at the door, and Mrs. Doran in the chimney-corner at 
her knitting, Mary made up her mind to tell the young man about 
her arrangements. When she began, she stood at the other side of 
the doorway, looking sometimes down the path, sometimes up at 
him, while she spoke. But, as she went on, Mike began to stroll 
slowly from the door. Mary in her earnestness never noticed that 
she was moving with him, till when she had ended speaking she 
found herself in the garden. She had had her say. Now Mike 
had his. And whatever it was, it had this effect, that Mary never 
went “thravellin’” after all. She had forgotten her old dreams 
in the sweetness of the new reality. 


A. N. 


494 


The Irish Monthly. 


A TWILIGHT VIGIL. 


From sunset to star-rise, 

While shadows long and drear 

And deeper fall on bier and pall, 
One mystery grows clear: 

The folded hands, the ashen face, 
Stilled heart and darkened eyes, 
Read me the worth of all life’s grace 
When here life stricken lies. 


From sunset to star-rise, 

The careless river flows 

By naked banks and flowerful banks, 
In ripple and repose ; 

And swallows circle high above 

Or dip along the wave, 

With angry notes or notes of love, 
Hard by the new-digged grave. 


From sunset to star-rise, 

There pass before the door 

A troop of boys with merry noise, 
And friends of his, a score ; 

I listen as the steps come near, 

I hear them die away ; 

Alas ! does not one enter here, 
And he died but yesterday ? 


From sunset to star-rise, 

In the death-chamber drear 

Death’s eloquence holds bound my sense, 
The mystery is clear— 

The secret of those full bright days 
Wherefrom as nothing worth 

Are cast out pride and love of praise 

Of the unremembering earth. 


I. D. 


Pigeonhole Paragraphs. | 495 


PIGEONHOLE PARAGRAPHS. 


The little accidental accessories of a kind act sometimes touch the 
heart of the person benefited more than the substance of the act 
itself. A friend met me when I was waiting for a railway train that 
had just brought him in from a seaside village to which I was hasten- 
ing. I had settled down in my place when my friend turned up again, 
having meanwhile gone to the bookstand and bought a new magazine 
to beguile my weariness on a half-hour’s journey. But here comes 
the point of the story, if point it can be called. The magazine was 
uncut, and with it my friend presented a little paper-knife. This was 
the kindest cut of all. This was the last straw that broke the camel’s 
back, the last drop that made the cup of gratitude flow over. That. 
little paper-knife showed greater thoughtfulness than the big 
magazine, best of its kind, which contained this quatrain by Matthew 
Richey Knight, whoever ke may be :— 


“The praise that spurs thee on 
And higher lifts thy quest 
Heaven send thee! Better none 
Than in it thou shouldst rest.’’ 
w & x 

I have always been touched by the kind way in which St. Ambrose 
excuses the mother of St. James and St. John for what might seem 
her overweening ambition on their behalf. The passage is quoted in 
the Breviary, Wednesday after second Sunday in I.ent, from the 
second chapter of his Liber 5 de Fide ad Grattanum. Because she was a 
mother, he holds that her anxiety for her sons’ advancement was to be 
pardoned, even if somewhat immoderate; a mother, indeed (he adds), 
advanced in age, of a religious disposition, bereft of solace, for she 
suffered her sons to be away from her at a time when she might have 
expected to be supported or helped by them; and she preferred to 
her own comfort the reward that her sons should be following Christ, 
“ Leaving their nets and their father, they followed Him.” Here 
St. Ambrose quotes relictis retibus et patre, and he says nothing 
about the omission of the mother’s name in this account of their 
prompt sacrifice, She, therefore, indulging too much the eagerness 
of maternal solicitude—studto maternae sedulstates indulgentior, addressed 
her indiscreet entreaty tothe Redeemer. Zé as error, ptetatss tamen error 


* Continued from page 276 of this volume. 


496 The Irish Monthly. 


eat. Nescitunt snim materna viscera patientiam: etat volt avara, tamen 
ventabtlts cuptditas. ‘‘ The mother’s heart knows not how to be patient. 
Though her wish is extravagant, her ambition is excusable, for it 
covets not money but grace, and her petition is not for herself, but 
for her children. Consider the poor mother, think of the mother.” 
These are only some of the touching excuses that St. Ambrose puts 
forward for the mother of the sons of Zebedee. The son of Monica 
could not have fallen into better hands. 


* * * 


When I read “Geraldine ” more than forty years ago, I remember 
one of my masters found the third volume in my hand, and he very 
properly remarked that the story would have been better if that third 
volume had been altogether omitted. It certainly reads oddly enough 
now as a three-volume novel. Miss Agnew had not the literary art 
of the young high-born lady, who, as a Prutestant still, was then 
writing ‘‘ Ellen Middleton.” I mention this “ Tale of Conscience” at 
present for the purpose of preserving a few lines which are prefixed as 
a motta to the last chapter, and are there said to have been “ written 
by a Nun on receiving the Blessed Sacrament at her profession in 
Salford Convent.” WhatConvent? Is there any more of this poem ? 


“ He comes not in power, He comes not in wrath, 
And the glory of heaven is not on His path ; 
The children of men bear the monarch of might, 
And, low with the lowly, He veileth his light ; 
Yet lift up your gates, O ye princes !—’tis He, 
The monarch of glory, who cometh to me. 
Who then is this monarch of glory? Reply: 
The Lord strong in battle, the great God on high. 
But who is this monarch of glory? O say: 
Favoured soul! ’tis the Spouse that has won thee to-day."' 


# w & 


We often form to ourselves a fixed idea of the personal appearance 
of persons whom we have never seen from their writings or speeches 
or things that we have heard about them. A friend of mine once 
asked, in a company of three or four, the idea each had formed of 
Lord Macaulay, then in the height of his fame. Most of us imagined 
him to be a tall man, whereas in reality he was short and stout, even 
unto pudginess. I am reminded of this in a description that has just 
come across me of the person of St. Francis de Sales. From his style, his 
general character, etc., I should have imagined him brisk and lively 
in his manner; and I had a lurking idea that he was small and 
compact. But Charles de Sales, quoted in an excellent little book, 
é“ The Heart of St. Francis de Sales,’’ tells us that “his figure was 


Pigeonhole Paragraphs. 497 


erect and robust, his stature commanding; he had a high cvlour, 
broad shoulders, a large, almost bald head; he had curly chestnut 
hair, an ample forehead, arched eyebrows, blue eyes, a faultlessly cut 
nose, rosy cheeks, a round mouth, and a thick and rather long beard ; 
his voice was deep, and he had a slow way of {speaking; his hands 
were large and strong; he walked firmly and leisurely ; his gestures 
were noble and simple; and his clothes were always neatly arranged.” 
* * w 


Father Stephen Perry, 8.J., whose recent death in the service of 
science has procured for him many tributes from the public press, 
some of them even in verse—an honour that he certainly never dreamt 
of as likely to befall him—this most painstaking and conscientious 
scientist delivered here in Dublin a few years ago, under the auspices 
of the Royal Dublin Society, a learned lecture on the spots of the 
sun, from which the present writer took nothing whatsoever away 
except the fact that these sun-spots never grow suddenly large, but, if 
they are to be large, they begin by being so. This illustrates a 
favourite notion of the aforesaid P. W. that radical changes in 
character are extremely rare; that the subtle tyranny of habit is 
overwhelming ; that the continuity of conduct is remarkable, not to 
say terrible; that the young should not look forward to any great 
change in maturer years, but should insist on being at once what they 
feel they ought to be, so that, if they want to be big spots on the sun, 
they must begin by being big sun-spots. 

* ¥ ¥ 


The Stonyhurst Magazine of April, 1890, gives an interesting account 
of the prize compositions at the old continental college of English 
Jesuits at St. Omer’s. A list of these, beginning with the year 1622, 
is preserved among the manuscripts of the British Museum. On June 
19th, 1623, the subject of the academical display was ‘‘the fate of the 
proud Emperor who had caused the words Deposust potentes to be 
struck out of the Magnificat.” Some two hundred and fifty years 
later, Longfellow sang the same theme in his “ King Robert of 
Sicily.” We do not know what other precursors he hafl beside the 
St. Omer’s boys of 1622. 

& . & 

Mary Howitt says that the naming of babies and of stories is a 
difficult matter. It is getting harder and harder to invent good names 
for books. Mr. W. E. Henley has lately given us a collection of 
essays and critieisms, and he calls his book ‘‘ Views and Reviews.” 
We have not seen it, but it is spoken of in terms that make us deter- 
mined to see it—and where? In that department of Merry England 

Vou. xvmx. No. 207. 85 


498 The Irish Monthly. 


which for some years has gone by the name of “ Reviews and Views. 
Yet Mrs. Meynell, in bestowing her well-balanced and finely-phrased. 
criticism on Mr. Henley, says not a word about his borrowed title 
Perhaps he begged leave to borrow it. By-the-way, the July instal- 
ment of Mrs. Meynell’s ‘‘ Reviews and Views” contains some fine 
pages about Browning ; and elsewhere, in the same number, she says 
that ‘‘ Keats, the poet of the great sonnet and the three great odes 
and the noblest of blank verse, wrote the couplet detestably.” The 
preceding page contains a dictum of a different kind. ‘There has 
never been an entirely dignified man ; and there have been extremely 
few entirely dignified women.” 
w Lá * 


The clever college Magazine referred to in the paragraph preced- 
ing the last of these paragraphs gave, when Zhe Mikado was the 
newest of the Sullivan-Gilbert operas, a classical rendering of one of 
its delightful bits of foolery. Thus sang W. 8. Gilbert’s muse :— 


On a tree by a river a little Tom-tit 
Sang ‘‘ Willow, tit willow, tit willow !’’ 
And I said to him, ‘‘ Dicky bird, why do you sit 
Singing ‘ Willow, tit willow, tit willow ?’ 
Ia it weakness of ixitellect, birdie?’ I cried, 
“ Or a rather tough worm in your little inside ?’’ 
With a shake of his poor little head he replied, 
“ Oh, willow, tit willow, tit willow !’’ 


He slapped at his chest as he sat on that bough, 
Singing “‘ Willow, tit willow, tit willow ! ”” 
And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow ; 
Oh, willow, tit willow, tit willow ! 
He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgie he gave, 
Then he threw himself into the billowy wave, 
And an echo arose from that suicide’s grave, 
“ Oh, willow, tit willow, tit willow.’’ 


The corresponding elegiacs are called ‘‘ Pari recinentis omen,” 
and are prefaced by the statement that a tom-tit is called in Latin 
“£ parus ” :— 


Arboris in foliis, fluviales Parus ad undas, 
Paros et Salices carmine consociat, 
Huioc ego: “Dic volucris! queenam tibi causa sedendi ? 
Quid mihi, sic Paros tu Salicesque sonas? 
Dic avicella! tibi mens imbecillior exstat ? 
Durior absorptus vermiculusne gravat?’’ 
At caput exiguum miserabilis ille revolvens, 
Paros et Salices improbus ingeminat. 


Pigeonhole Paragraphs. 499 


Verberat en pectus, ramo defixus in illo, 
(Cum Paro est iteram commemorata Salix), 
Circumstat gelidus rorantia tempora sudor, 
Parorum et Salicum, vee mihi utrumque genus! 
Suspirans, lacrymans, singultu guttura torquens, 
Hinc se preecipitem fert, periturus aquis : 
Quam parat ipse sibi resonante his vocibus urna ; 
é Pare ! Salix! iterum Pare! iterumque Salix! ”” 
* w * 


The Catholic Union and Times of Buffalo, in New York county, 
having completed its eighteenth year (like ourselves) began its nine- 
teenth year with a very Special Number, with contributions from 
Maurice F. Egan, William J. Onahan, and other distinguished 
Catholics. The following is from a paper by Brother Azarias, whom 
we have often named to our readers, but not until now by his Irish 
name of Mullany. He is speaking sympathetically of the worries of 
a Catholic editor :— 


‘* There is the author with whose book you have found fault! He becomes em- 
bittered against you. Look not for words of commendation from his lips. He is 
wroth with himeelf for having done you the honour of sending you his book for 
criticiam. Perhaps he even wrote you a letter laudatory of the good taste evident 
in your criticisms, and indirectly pleading for a favourable judgment. But you 
could not call pinchbeck gold, and you found it necessary to speak plain truth, 
which to the author was unpalatable truth. We have known an author—and an 
author of some merit—to go out of her way to stab the great Brownson, under 
cover of an unsigned newspaper article, in revenge for strictures he made upon one 
of her books. But, as an author with whom the critics have dealt generously 
beyond his deserts, the writer would plead earnestly in favour of handling as 
gently as possible the young Catholic aspirant who appeals to a Catholic audience. 
Remember the many ways in which the Catholic ‘writer is handicapped ; his diffi- 
culties in publishing ; his chances of failure to secure a wide enough circle of 
readers ; the very few inducements he has to write as a Catholic in comparison with 
those presenting themselves in the field of secular letters. It behooves us not to 
discourage the Catholic writer who shows talent and gives promise of better things. 
A Catholic book should at first flush go home to the sympathy of the Catholic 
reviewers. Of course the worthless book, the book inadequate to do justice to its 
subject, the book of many pretensions, the inaccurate book, the ill-written book— 

hese should each and all be estimated at their true worth.”’ 


500 The Irish Monthly. 


CARDINAL NEWMAN. 
R. I. P. 


rT'EE great Cardinal is dead. The soul of Gerontius has at 

last made that journey which no poet or preacher or theolo- 
gian or ascetic writer that we have ever seen has described half 
go well as Gerontius himself. Zhe Dream of Gerontius is realised. 

John Henry Newman was born in London, February 21st, 
1801 ; Cardinal Newman died at Birmingham, August 11th, 1890. 
The story that lies between those two dates has been told briefly 
in hundreds of journals these last few days. But none of the 
English newspapers, in narrating Dr. Newman’s conversion, has 
mentioned the Irish priest of whom the illustrious convert himself 
has said in his Apologia: “My dear friend, Dr. Russell, the 
present President of Maynooth, had, perhaps, more to do with my 
conversion than any one else.” It will be our duty hereafter to 
give an acoount of a friendship which, beginning so far back as 
1841, lasted till Dr. Russell’s death in 1880. The correspondence 
contains many an expression of affectionate interest towards Ireland, 
like this in the letter to Father Daniel, which is autographed in The 
Freeman’s Journal, in the number describing the Cardinal’s burial, 
when twenty bishops, many noblemen, and twenty thousand people 
followed him to his grave at Rednall, a small village not far from 
his home at Edgbaston. On the 28rd of February, 1879, he 
wrote: “It is a great pleasure to me to be told that the Catholics 
of Ireland take an interest in me. I have never forgotten the 
kindness they showed me when I was in Ireland.” 

Among those who followed the sanctified remains of the aged 
Cardinal to what is wrongly called their last resting-place, was 
Lord Coleridge, who lately said in a lecture which he published 
in a magazine two months ago: “ Raffaelle is said to have thanked 
God that he had lived in the days of Michael Angelo; there are 
scores of men I know, there are hundreds and thousands I believe, 
who thank God that they have lived in the days of John Henry 
Newman.” 

This was said during his lifetime; and now that he is gone, he 
is praised, even by the organs of those creeds and opinions which 
he renounced, with a unanimity and an earnestness for which no 


Cardinal Newman. 501 


parallel can be found. The Standard says that “one of the 
greatest names in the history of the two Churches is now enrolled 
among the deathless dead!” The Times (which in this instance is 
supposed to be J. A. Froude) says that “the memory of his pure 
and noble life, untouched by worldliness, unsoured by any trace of 
fanaticism, will endure, and, whether Rome canonises him or not, 
he will be canonised in the thoughts of pious people of many creeds 
in England.” The Morning Post speaks of him as “a good man 
and a great Englishman, a man not only of genius but of the most 
admirable character.” And finally—for we cannot prolong this 
litany of praise—the Pall Mall Gazette says that “by the death of 
Cardinal Newman the Church of Rome loses one of its two great 
English Cardinals, the literature of England loses one of its great 
masters, and the world loses one of the chiefest of its saints.’’ 

This beloved and venerated name must of necessity be 
mentioned frequently in our pages hereafter. At present our 
hearts can only bless God for having given to us such a name and 
such a memory to cherish. What a full and perfect life! Forty- 
five years of study and prayer ending in his reception into the 
Catholic fold ; and then forty-five years to rue the step if he 
chose ; whereas he could say to the end, like St. Theresa, “ Thank 
God, I die after all a child of the Church.” His prayer, uttered 
long before, was granted and more than granted :— 


é“ Whene’er goes forth the solemn word, 
And my last hour is come, 
Deal me the gracious stroke, O Lord, 
Within a Christian home,” 


Every other word of the prayer was fulfilled. “The absolving 
words were said;” his most trusted and dearest friends were 
standing by—he did not “ die alone.” And his “ name in sickness 
and in death was heard within the sacred shrine.” Very many 
all the world over will pray fervently for the eternal repose and 
glory of this magnificent and tender soul, whom God has made use 
of to draw many towards that heaven into which we may dare 
even to hope that He has already admitted His servant, John 
Henry Newman. 


R. I. P. 


502 The Irish Monthly. 


THE MELANCHOLY OCEAN.* 


“é Far off, amid the melancholy main,”’—Afilton. 
“st Inhabiting an island washed by a melancholy ocean.’’—Lord Beaconsfield. 


Oh! the salt Atlantic breezes, 

How they sweep reviving through me ! 
How their freshening spirit seizes 

Soul and sense, to raise, renew me ! 


Oh! the grand Atlantic surges, 
How they march, and mount, and mingle; 
How their spray exulting scourges 
Jutty cliff and sandy dingle ! 
Talk of melancholy ocean, — 
If thou feelest wane and wither 
Every germ of glad emotion, 
Come, O Vivian Grey ! come hither. 


Sit and mark the matchless glory 

Of the clouds that overshade us, 
Afreets of the Eastern story, 

Titans such as Keats portrayed us,— 
Till, majestically blending, 

Folded on the western billow, 
They await their lord’s descending, 

Strewing his imperial pillow. 
Not in youth’s intoxication, 

Not in manhood’s strange successes, 
Didst thou drink an inspiration 

Such as here the heart confesses. 


Here where joy surrounds thee wholly, 
If thy thought a moment listens 

To intruding melancholy, 
It is born of reminiscence, — 


Of the old forsaken causes, 

Of the higher fame’s bereavement, 
Of a life time of applauses, 

Barren, barren of achievement. 


* We rescue this from an old Spectator of twelve years ago. Its signature 
happily familiar in our pages.— Z£d. I. i. 








\ 


Notes on New Books. 503 


Genius in ignoble traces, 
Leading ranks whom thou despisest, 
Till thy self-willed fate effaces ' 
All that in thy soul thou prizest. 


For the prophet’s fire and motion, 
Icy mask and sneer sardonic,— 
Be it so! Majestic Ocean, 
Thou art Melancholy’s tonic. O. 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. We have more than once commended Lady Margaret Domville’s 
Lafe of Lamartine. We commend it again, though it is not now a new 
book, for the purpose of correcting a misstatement which in our last 
issue we copied from sundry newspapers. Lady Margaret Domville 
happily is living still to do other good work for Catholic literature. 

2. The Archbishop of Dublin has published a ‘‘ Statement of the 
Chief Grievances of Irish Oatholics in the matter of Education, 
Primary, Intermediate, and University’? (Dublin: Browne and 
Nolan). We read with amazement on the cover the words “ price 
one shilling and sixpence,” for what was probably intended to be a 
pamphlet has proved to be a fine octavo volume of 420 admirably 
printed pages. No one wishing to be acquainted with the past, 
present, and (let us hope) future of Irish Education, can dispense with 
the study of this volume—a study which is immensely facilitated by 
the table of contents which immediately follows the title-page, and 
which seems to us a model of clear arrangement, almost doing away 
with any need for an alphabetical index. Besides giving the history 
of the question, the Archbishop develops his views of the chdnges 
still required ; and both in the body of the work and in a long series 
of appendixes he furnishes a vast number of pronouncements by 
persons of authority, and various other documents bearing on the 
subject. 

3. ‘ Forgotten Heroines, or the History of a Convent in the days 
of Luther,” by the author of Zysorne (London: Burns and Oates), is, 
first of all, as prettily bound a book asone might wish to see. Mother 
Magdalen Taylor tells the pathetic and edifying story of the sufferings 
of certain generatious of Dominican Nuns at Strasbourg, after the 
horrible Reformation, bringing in skilfully an allusion to their Irish 
Sisters in the Rose Convent, Galway, and Sienna Convent, Drogheda. 
She commemorates also, in a short sketch, the centenary of the French 
Nuns who suffered or died heroically in 1790, 





504 The Irish Monthly. 


4. The same publishers have brought out in excellent taste, “The 
Life of St. Thomas Aquinas, the Angelic Doctor. Edited by Father 
Pius Kavanagh, O.P.” It consists of some 250 pages, and is illustrated 
by eleven pictures of more than ordinary merit. That there should 
be room in English literature for such a popular and yet extended 
Life, after the great Life by Cardinal Moran’s predecessor in the See 
of Sydney, speaks well for the devotion felt towards the Angel of the 
Schools. 


5. Four small books may be grouped together. The cheapest and 
best is a penny tract published by the Catholic Truth Society—‘“‘ The 
Faith of the Ancient English Church concerning the Blessed Virgin 
Mary.” As is usual with everything coming from Father Bridgett’s 
pen, it contains strong and useful points put better than almost any- 
one else could put them. ‘ Maxims and Counsels of St. Philip Neri ”’ 
(Dublin : M. H. Gill and Son), is a reprint of the translation issued 
by Father Faber, in 1847. ‘The Life of Our Lord, prepared, chiefly 
in the words of the Gospel. for use in Schools,” by T. Murphy, of St. 
Mary’s Training College, Hammersmith (London : Burns and Oates), 
is a good idea very well carried out, and very much more readably and 
attractively printed than many similar books for the young. Lastly, 
very minute, but very clear type condenses into two hundred pages an 
immense quantity of information about the history, constitutions, 
and ceremonial of the Third Order of St. Francis (London: Barns 
and Oates). 


6. ‘‘ Tlustrated Catholic Missions”? (London: J. Donovan, 19 
Henrietta Street, Covent Garden), is a monthly illustrated record, 
published in connection with the Society for the Propagation of the 
Faith. It is an exceedingly interesting periodical, and ought to be a 
favourite, not only in convents, but also in Catholic households. The 
illustrations are numerous, and very good, and there is a great variety 
of information about the foreign missions and subjects connected with 
them. Is this threepenuy magazine sufficiently known in Ireland ? 


7° The Weekly Register gives the following account of a tale which 
this magazine had the privilege of first giving to the world: 
A new and popular edition of Miss Rosa Mulholland’s Wild Birds of Killeevy 
will be widely welcomed. It is seven years since this entrancing story was first 
ublished, and every year since then gained for it a new circle of readers. 
and original, this idyll of romance goes back to the simplicities of things of 
life, of nature, and of art. <A story like this must be really more powerful than an 
intricate and sensatianal one, which with metricious aids, add to its interest, and 
works up & tour de force toits, perhaps, fine and forceful denouement. Here each 
seems to have been written for its own sake. The charm and poetry of the 
Celtic character and temperament, which is of the highest realism, and most real 
because it is of the highest, makes vital the opening chapters of the novel. Then 
on through a wide variety of scene the story winds, increasing in beauty with 
glimpses every here and there of the heaven in human nature and of the Heaven 
beyond, until towards the close, where the affecting, yet withal quiet, climax of 
reward and fruition is reached. Love’s ennobling, and love’s sanctification, were 
never more affectingly, and less affectedly, put before us; and we wish that every 
convent in the land would give this pure and wholesome book to its girls—girls, 
nine out of every ten of them, meant in God’s providence to know love and to love 
as wives and mo 








OCTOBER, 1890. 


———————_-f-___. 


UNDER THE GOLDEN SPEARS. 


TE is a typical Irish village of the more prosperous kind. It 

has four public-houses, two churches, the police barracks, 
where half a dozen fine specimens of manhood work frightful 
havoc amongst maidenly hearts; a grocer’s shop, where you can 
buy boots, flannel petticoats, and newspapers; a post office, and 
about a dozen thatched cottages. Children swarm, dogs and 
chickens abound, able-bodied men in good round numbers lounge 
of an evening about the corners, and lean against the low white- 
washed. wall yonder; while as for the old womer they appear to 
be beyond all count. Our house, recently taken, is situated at the 
upper end of the irregular street, to which it turns its back; a 
pretty, rambling old mansion looking out on an antiquated garden. 
Opposite rises a majestic mountain, big and brown and bare; an 
efficient contrast to the lovely wooded glen on its right, and the 
velvety hillock to the left, where golden hay-cocks, of a size never 
to be seen save on this side of the Irish Channel, are scattered over 
the smooth green sward. 

To reach our back-door it is necessary—bear our whereabouts 
in mind—to cross the front of the house. Privacy, therefore, is 
never to be caloulated on; not only is our every movement visible 
to the stream of humble visitors who pass before our drawing-room 
windows, but such of the said visitors as have been unable to 
transact business to their satisfaction in the rear, make a practice 
of standing before the said windows, and persistently curtseying, 
until, out of shear exasperation, we are forced to come to terms 
with them. The eggs which we have been obliged to buy, the 
honey which we have consented to consume, the fruit regularly, if 
reluctantly, purchased, because the vendor thereof pathetically 

Vou, xvi. No. 208. 86 


506 | The Irish Monthly. 


declared he had “ wan fut in the gully-hole,” would supply an 
average sized co-operative store. - 

Then there are the beggars of every age and variety, from the 
mite who can scarcely walk alone to the crone who remembers the 
Rebellion. Our stores of ancient garments are exhausted; our 
fingers, by dint of constant stitching, reduced to the condition of 
nutmeg graters. It seems to us that we must have clothed the 
entire village, and still they come. 

The fact of our being a community of ladies, though in general 
rather an advantage from the beggars’ point of view, as implying 
greater tenderness of heart and nimbleness of hand, has occasion- . 
ally its drawbacks. While still at breakfast the other morning, we 
were informed that ““a boy” wished to see us; the footman 
thought, bashfully, that he wanted clothes. 

“ Clothes ! How old is he?” 

“ About twenty, ma’am !” 

Not being outfitters on quite so large a scale, we were reluc- 
tantly compelled to “ draw the line” at youths of twenty. 

The old lady who favours us most frequently with her company 
is, to use the vernacular of the country, somewhat “crabby ” as to 
her temper, and eccentric in her demeanour. 

My mother having on one occasion presented her with (saving 
your presence) a fine, warm, flannel petticoat, stipulated that Mary 
was to wear it, and added—knowing how frequently such garments 
found their way to the nearest pawnshop—that she would expect 
to see it on, the latter’s next appearance. 

Accordingly, when again in want of “a grain o’ tay,” Mary 
was descried making her way towards our house, with the white 
petticoat jauntily disposed outside her ragged gown. 

“ Why, you're very grand to-day ! ” remarked an acquaintance. 
“ W ho gave you the fine petticoat P ” 

Whereupon Mary, jerking her thumb forwards, replied respect- 
fully : “A widdy woman beyant there! ” 

Subsequently, finding the garment in question deficient in the 
ventilation to which she was accustomed, she trudged up to 
remonstrate with the donor, asserting in much displeasure that she 
was “kilt wid the hate.” 

Most of the recipients of such charity as we can bestow, how- 
ever, receive it in a more kindly spirit. I shall never forget the 
transports of gratitude into which one very ancient dame was 








Under the Golden Spears. - 607 


thrown on being presented with a pair of boots. The blessings 
which she showered on our heads, the prayers which she poured 
forth, the good wishes which she formulated, were as earnest as 
they were rapturous. | 

“ May yez niver thirst!” she oried, after engaging a bed in 
Heaven for each of us, and invoking the nine “ chores”’ of angels 
on our behalf, “may yez dhrink o’ the river that runs through 
Heaven ! ” 

After this poetical outburst she betook herself to the neigh- 
bouring convent to show off her treasures to the nuns, who would, 
_ she assured us, “ be leppin’ wid delight.” 

In about half an hour she returned, her wrinkled face flushed, 
her bright blue eyes almost starting out of her head with excite- 
ment. It did not transpire that the good Sisters had been so far 
carried away by their enthusiasm as actually to perform the anti- 
cipated athletic feats, but one of the community had been moved 
to some purpose, having bestowed a pair of stockings on our white- 
haired protégée, whose nether-limbs were now completely arrayed. 
Standing well in front of our drawingroom windows, and kilting up 
her tattered* garments so as to afford us a good view of her poor old 
spindle-shanks, she gazed downwards on them with an expression 
of reverence almost amounting to awe, and exclaimed: “‘ Glory be 
to God, to think I should come into the world to be wearin’ the 
stockin’s o’ the consecrated to the Lord!” 

Quaint and picturesque as is this village of ours, its delights 
are forgotten in the contemplation of its surroundings; the beauty 
of the mountains alone being enough to eclipse all other charms of 
scenery. 

Here is form for those who admire most the grandeur of form. . 
Here the rugged outlines of Bray Head with its patch of blue- 
green fir trees climbing the side, its deep hollows and bold expanse 
of rock; and there the Sugar-loaves, or Golden Spears—-to use the 
more expressive and poetic name worn by them long ages before 
some practical Briton (of a commercial turn) bestowed on them 
their present title. A big, solemn, majestic figure is the greater of 
these Golden Spears; its rocky summit piercing the heavens; its 
imposing form changing in aspect with every turn of the many 
roads that wind about it, and dominating the surrounding country. 
Not a valley in the neighbourhood is complete without this sombre 
figure in the background; wherever we betake ourselves in our 





508 The Lrish Monthly. 


daily walks or drives, shut in though we may be, in leafy glens, 
surrounded by chains of hills, there is still that stately presence 
looming above us, keeping guard over mountain and dale, and 
seeming to be the protecting genius of the place. 

Again, besides these distinctive landmarks, are there not, 
stretching away behind them, range upon range of majestic hills, 
in every variety of shape, and of every shade of colour, some of 
them fantastically crowned with rocks, while others raise their 
heads from among a dusky growth of pines ? 

Then this undulating tract of country to the right, with its 
smooth hillocks, its wild, unkempt hedgerows, the quaint and, 
picturesque—if occasionally comfortless—cabins dotted about 
amongst the trees: has it not also a beauty of its own? 

As for colour, there was surely never such 4 place for colour as 
here amid the Wicklow hills. King Sugar-loaf wears proudly his 
royal mantle of exquisite bronze, relieved with amber trimmings, 
and further set off, as befits a regal garment, by abundance of 
gold—the gold of low-growing Irish gorse. His younger brother, 
Beanagh-beg, to give him his ancient title, is a blaze of yellow 
and purple, while the hues of the more distant hills vary from the 
most ethereal blue to a dense gloom that is almost black. 

Colour! ‘What about the hedgerows ? Oh, those Irish hedge- 
rows, the mere sight of whose luxuriant growth would drive a 
British farmer distracted, how lovely they are! Perhaps more 
lovely now than-at any other time, for the last of the summer 
flowers still nestle at their feet and the tangle above is rich with 
the glories of autumn. Stretches of black-thorn that almost 
seem on fire, so brilliant are their oranges and reds, alternate with 
a wild confusion of gorse and bramble, of pale-leaved “ sally” and 
sturdy hazel; while here and there a sapling of delicate ash or 
elder starts up, purest gold or bleached almost white from amid the 
ferns and mosses beneath. Those ferns, how they grow! With 
what grace they curve outwards from the ivy-clad bank, downwards 
to the tiny stream below ; with what cunning, not to say coquetry, 
they creep in their still vivid green into such close proximity with 
a scarlet tuft of cranesbill, or peep out from amid a drift of lately- 
fallen russet leaves. Side by side with them grow ox-eyed 
daisies, dandelions of every denomination, brilliant poppies, deli- 
cate speedwells; and the irregular line of hedgerow above is 
broken every now and then by a full-grown hawthorn whose leaf- 





Under the Golden Spears. 509 


less boughs are so thickly clustered over with berries that they 
resemble nothing so much as gigantic branches of coral. 

Just climb up this wooded hill to the right, and you will see 
something in the way of colour. Through the wood, where the 
silver-stemmed oaks and yellowing larches contrast so vividly with 
those melancholy Scotch firs, upwards by that winding path, out 
on the furze-covered summit; take up your stand by this loose 
stone wall, and look around you. 

Ah! you did not expect to find the sea so near. See it 
shining beneath us, its vivid transparent blue melting into slate- 
-colour at the horizon where that delicate mist unites it with the 
sky. Grey and violet shadows flit across it, and here, where it 
tosses its white fringe upon the shore, the sapphire has changed 
to emerald. To our left, as we stand looking down on it, we 
have a view of Killiney Bay, almost ideal in its beauty. It lies 
bathed in light; Dalkey Island, wrapped in mist, being outlined 
with exquisite softness against the faintly-tinted hills beyond. 
Seeing it as we do, between the lesser Sugar-loaf and Bray Head, 
the very contrast between the picture and its framework heightens 
the charm of each; the two mountains with their rugged outlines 
and their vivid colouring rendering more ethereal the dreamy 
loveliness beyond. 

The russet autumnal bloom on the distant woods is brightened 
in places by gold and crimson, while here a scarlet-leaved wild 
cherry-tree flames forth, and there a stately array of firs stretches 
out in solemn procession. Now that the sun sinks westward, 
sheets of gold shine out on the hill-sides where the fawn-coloured 
tips of their tall grasses catch its light. The yellow of the gorse 
gleams out from hedgerow and mountain-slope, and even the 
turnip-fields are aflame, the yellow ox-eyed daisy having made 
its home amid the ridges. 

Gazing round one at all this beauty, one can understand how 
intense is the love of the Irish peasant for his native land, how 
closely his heart-strings are twined about his green valley and his 
purple hillside, and how natural it is that the parting from them 
should be dreaded almost more than death. One can realise the 
passionate tenderness with which the emigrant ever looks towards 
the old land across the glittering miles of ocean, the yearning 
which, even in the midst of new-found prosperity, will not let him 
rest; until at last he comes sailing back, with closed eyes that may 








510 The Irish Monthly. 


not weep for gladness, and toil-worn hands folded on his breast, to 
find his last home in some well-known spot, where his own green 
may wave undisturbed above him, and his heart Jie at peace in 
Trish soil. 

It has been said of late by one who laboured for years among 
Irish emigrants, that the children born to them in distant lands, 
inherit this strange love, and that many of them on reaching 
manhood are drawn by this transmitted longing across the wide 
seas to the old country which their parents have described in such 
glowing terms to them. 

“ But they never come a second time,” says the emigrants’ 
friend. Perhaps their younger, keener eyes, escaping the spell 
that fascinated their fathers, look on a poverty-stricken cabin, a 
waste of ill-tilled land, as a cabin and a waste, not as the home 
once counted all in all; or perhaps the ideal unconstiously formed 
within them was too lofty, and the fairyland of which they 
dreamt disenchants them with the reality, or again, it is perhaps 
because of a simple “hankering after the flesh pots of Egypt” 
that they are so ready to re-cross the desert ocean, and to turn 
their backs upon the Canaan for which the patriarchs of their 
tribe have sighed in vain. Poor Ireland! beautiful, deserted 
motherland! to those thou wert a reality, obstinately clung to, 
passionately beloved ; to these but as a phantom-island, conjured 
up for a brief space amid the shining waters, and then lost sight 
of for evermore ! 

No evidence of the disturbance so widely spread over the 
country is perceptible (at least to a casual observer) in this quiet 
neighbourhood. The people are kindly and obliging, old-fashioned 
enough still to remove a pipe or drop a curtsey as they pass you, 
and readily giving a cheery word in answer to your greeting. 
That they have political opinions of the most advanced fype is of 
course understood, but they are careful never to obtrude them on 
you. It was amusing to see the cautious way in which old Dan, 
the oracle of the village yonder, eyed me when I tried to extract 
. from him an expression of his sentiments as to the state of the 
country. “ There’s others,” he remarked, “ ockypied about it at 
the present time betther able to dale with it than meself.” Not- 
withstanding his assumption of humility, he is a very great per- 
sonage in these parts, and his opinion carries considerable weight. 
His history, too, is curious. Born in ’98 (his father’s house 








Under the Golden Spears. | 511 


having been wrecked and burnt in those troubled times, and his 
twin-brother perishing in the flames), he sought his fortune by 
turns in England, in France, and in Algiers. Not succeeding in 
finding it, he returned to his native village, where he lives (in a 
loft) on such charity as is offered to him, for he will not stoop to 
beg. He has a great deal to say about his various experiences in 
@ curious jargon of his own, where provincial English is mingled 
with his native brogue, and further embellished with not a few 
words of extremely eccentric French, which, however, he is careful 
to translate as he goes on. One anecdote in particular he relates 
with much gusto, descriptive of his arrest once by a gendarme who 
took him for a spy. 

“He got a hoult o’ me, an’ he stripped me—savin’ yer pre- 
sence—an’ sarched me everyway. An’ all at wanst he comes upon 
one little medal hangin’ round me neck. ‘Commong?’ he says, 
vous, Hangleterre, Catholique ? ” (meanin’ ‘ are you an Englishman 
an’ a CatholicP’) ‘Nong,’ says I, ‘ Hirelandy,’ says I—tellin’” 
him I were an Irishman, ye know. ‘O Hirelandy!’ he says, an’ 
he olaps me on the back. ‘ Hirelandy, bong Christien, bong 
Catholique—Angleterre méme christien que cheval!’ ” 

The ideas of many of the country-people hereabouts with 
regard to England are to the full as uncomplimentary as is this 
surprising statement. 

“é England's a terrible bad place!” remarked one old woman 
_ of my acquaintance. “ The wickedness over there is awful. Them 
White-church murthers, now: 

“ White-chapel you mean.” 

é“ Lord save us, ma’am ! ”—in deeply scandalised tones—“ sure 
- there isn’t e’er a chapel there at all!” Chapel being the term 
generally employed to designate the Catholic place of worship, and 
the good old lady being convinced there could be none such in go 
unhallowed a spot. 

The peasantry here is by no means s entirely Catholic, however, 
unlike that of other counties, where a member of another persuasion 
is so great a rarity as to be generally spoken of as “the Protestant,” 
or “‘ the Presbyterian,” much as we should mention the High 
Sheriff, or the Lord Mayor. Here, there are representatives of 
many religious denominations, and some who appear to make out 
a creed for themselves. An ancient dame belonging to this last 
category was heard to declare on one occasion that she wanted 





512 The Irish Monthly. 


no “ embassador, nayther priest nor ministher,” between her “ an’ 
the Lord.” “I know I’m in the right road !”’ she added defiantly. 

“Oh, ¢hat indeed, ma’am? maybe so, ma’am,” responded a 
sarcastic Catholic neighbour. ‘“ Wait till you come to the cross- 
roads, ma’am—I’m afeard ye ll take a wrong turn thin.” 

It was the latter sturdy matron who, on being recommended 
to pray for the conversion of those with whom she differed instead 
of quarelling with them, returned indignantly that there were 
some in the neighbourhood that “all the divils in hell would be 
hard set to convert!” 

But, while I am gossiping here so idly on the top of Kindles- 
town hill,the sun has dropped behind the mountains opposite, and 
the bank of clouds which has been slowly gathering, turns of a 
sudden fiery red. We must hasten homewards, for it is late and 
we have some way to go. 

Through the shadowy wood again, our passage hailed by 
many shrieks and twitters of bird-voices, many whirrings and 
flutterings of startled wings—and out once more on the high road. 
Half an-hour’s brisk walking, and we are at our own gates. 

Our big black hill stands out against the background of lambent 
yellowish green, and, though the glowing crimson to the left has 
somewhat paled, the sky is still smeared and splashed in places, as 
though carelessly daubed over with a fiery brush. The last of the 
- beggars has departed, the policeman’s crying baby is asleep, a 
solitary rook sails homeward just above us, slumbrous shades 
rest upon the hill-sides, peace has descended on the valley, and the 
solemn Golden Spears, released from the necessity of guardianship, 


lean against the darkening heavens, and commune at ease with 
kindred piles of clouds. 


M. E. Francis. 








THE IRISH REAPER’S EVENSONG. 


LITHELY in the tasselled corn 
We have toiled the whole day long, 
Hook in hand, from early morn 
Unto golden evensong. 
Now, as slowly lapses down 
Roseate evening in the west, 
‘Weary limbs and hands of brown 
From the swinging sickles rest. 
Ave Mary! now we pray, 
Gleaning o’er and toiling done! 
Keep us safe from sin alway, 
Till life’s guerdon shall be won. 


Well we’ve wrought with scythe and hook ; 
See, along the stubbly slopes, 
Golden sheaf and yellow stook 
Richly crown our April hopes. 
In this hour of sweet surcease, 
Hark ! how gladly from afar 
Tolls the Angelus of peace, 
To the silver evening star ! 
Ave Mary! rest is sweet ; 
Unto thee at set of sun 
Flock thy children’s eager feet, 
For thy blessing, toiling done. 


Softly, sweetly sound the chimes :- 
Ah ! the tears are in my eyes ; 
From the graves of olden times 
They have roused old memories. 
Heaven bless our Irish home! 
Those we love are far away, 
Long since fled o’er sunset foam :— 
Let us for our exiles pray ! 
Ave Mary ! Comfortress ! 
Star of mariners at sea ! 
Ireland's wandering children bless, 
Wheresoever they may be ! 


514 ' The Irish Monthly. 


See ! the full moon, round and large, 
Trembles in the orchard boughs ; 
Loudly from the river’s marge 
Low the heavy-uddered cows. 
And the bleating of the fold, 
And the shepherd’s baying hound, 
Sweetly through the twilight gold 
From the purple hillsides soynd. 
Ave Mary ! now we pray, 
Gleaning o’er and toiling done, 
Keep us safe from sin alway, 
Till life’s guerdon shall be won. 


God be praised ! how richly ripe 
Glow the rows of golden wheat : 
Now for home, with flute and pipe 
Tuning to the dancers’ feet. 
Ours is such a weight of woe, 
Tearful toil and grief and wrong 
Must have crushed us long ago, 
Save for solace of our song. 
Ave Mary! rest is sweet : 
Unto thee at set of sun 
Flock thy children’s eager feet, 
For thy blessing, toiling done. 


Patrick J. Coteman. 
Philadelphia, U.S.A. 


A STRIKING CONTRAST. 


RY THR AUTHOR OF “ THE MISER OF KINGSOOURT,” (“THE STRANGE ADVENTURES 
OF LITTLE SNOWDROP,”’ ETO. 





CHAPTER XX. 
A SUDDEN DETERMINATION. 
S soon as Dora had written her note to Madge, and dispatched it 
safely by Mrs. Sims, a good-natured woman who occasionally 


did a little cleaning up and down the house, she grew restless and 
excited. She could no longer be still upon her sofa, and hemming the 





A Striking Contrast. 515 


blue frills became impossible. So she flung them aside, and began 
to walk impatiently round the room. 

“ Madge is later than usual, to-night,” she cried at last, sinking 
wearily into a chair. ‘Just because I want her to be early, those 
people keep her grinding over their exercises. But, thank Goodness, 
she may soon give them all up. Sir Eustace is rich and powerful, and 
Sylvia will not forget us, I know. So if Madge is not too 
proud ”’ 

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her reflections, and she 
started to her feet in surprise. 

“I may come in, I suppose?” asked an unknown voice, and a 
tall lady, in a trailing silk dress, entered the room, and took the girl 
affectionately by the hand. 

“ You do not know me, dear,” she said, “and really it is so dark 
that one can hardly distinguish one thing from another. But, by 
your fair hair, I know you are Dorothy. How it has grown since I 
saw you last. Do you often wear ‘it like that?” — 

“I beg your pardon. May I ask you who you are?” said Dora, 
surprised at the strange, familiar manner. “I think you must have 
come into the wrong room. There are many people living in this 
house.” 

‘‘So there are. But I fancy I have come straight to the place I 
wanted. You are Dorothy Neil. I am your friend, Lady Ash- 
field.” 

Dora trembled, and grasped the back of a chair. 

“ Lady Ashfield !”’ | 

“Yes, dear child. You see I have not forgotten you, nor my 
promise to assist you. You helped us, too, bravely when our horses. 
ran away. Now we must find out what we can do for you. But 
pray light the gas. I want to see what you are like.” 

Dora struck a match, and silently lit the gas above their heads. 
She was very pale, and her eyes flashed indignantly as she remembered 
the cruel manner in which Lady Ashfield had treated her sister. She 
looked upon this visit as an insolent intrusion, and feared to-speak lest 
she should betray the anger she felt. 

é“ That is better,” said Lady Ashfield, looking the girl curiously up 
' and down. “Now I can see you, and very pretty you have grown, 
my dear. That hair is worth a fortune.” 

Dorothy crimsoned and turned away her head. 

“I do not wish to make you vain, dear child,” continued Lady 
Ashfield, taking off her heavy plush cloak, and laying it on the sofa. 
“ But you are pretty, as I tell you—and yet,” she added, examining 
her critically, ‘‘ it is not the prettiness, the beauty I might say, of the 








516 | The Irish Monthly. 


aristocracy. No one would ever pick you out in a room, as they 
would Sylvia Atherstone, for instance. She bears the stamp of 
nobility—of family in every feature and movement; whilst you—well, 
you are a sweet looking girl, but you come of a lower class. No 
living person would ever believe you to be an Atherstone. You do 
not look it in any way. Sylvia does. It is wonderful how birth 
shows itself in the very smallest particulars.” 

And, leaning back in her chair, Lady Ashfield arranged her neck- 
lace, and held her satin-shod feet up to the fire. 

As Dora looked at this fashionable lady, in her gorgeous evening 
dress and sparkling jewels, and heard the cruel words that fell from 
her lips, a great rage took possession of her. This woman knew the 
secret of her life, knew that she was really Sylvia Atherstone, and had 
come there to insult her, and accuse her and Madge of lying. For a 
moment the room seemed to spin round ; her tongue clove to the roof 
of her mouth ; her lips refused to utter a sound. 

“What a silent child you are,” cried her visitor. ‘‘ You seem to 
have nothing to say for yourself to-night. I came here at some 
inconvenience to myself, on my way to a dinner party, to see you and 
Madge and find out what I could do for you. And, instead of being 
pleased to receive my visit and tell me all your troubles, you stand 
there staring as if you were dumb.” 

“I am not dumb, nor am I deaf,” replied Dora with dignity. “I 
have heard your words and understand them perfectly. You are not 
our friend, and Madge and I must respectfully decline all help from 
you.” 

“ You are insolent.” ' 

“ No, only honest. When Madge ”—— 

“Well, dear, what of Madge? Are you rehoaraing for a play, 
Dora?” asked her sister, who came in as she was speaking. 
‘‘Or—but I beg your pardon. I thought my sister was alone. 
Good evening, Lady Ashfield.” 

And bowing coldly to the visitor, Madge put her arm round Dora, 
and having quietly removed the plush cloak to a neighbouring chair, 
made her lie down upon the sofa. 

“ You look ill, darling,” she whispered. ‘‘Close your eyes and 
rest. I will talk to Lady Ashfield, and get rid of her as soon as pos- 
sible.”’ 

‘‘Oh, Madge, Madge, why is she here now?” cried Dora, clinging 
to her sister and kissing her tenderly. ‘‘I have such good news, 
dear, if she’d only go.” 

“ Hush, love, we must not be rude. We must treat our visitor 
with proper civility.” And freeing herself from the girl’s embrace, 
she went over to the fire and stood beside Lady Ashfield. 








Ree ae, | UN 


A Striking Contrast. | 517 


‘‘A pretty picture. Such sisterly affection is truly touching.” 

Madge’s lips were tightly set, and her dark brows met together in 
a frown. 

“To what are we indebted for the honour of this visit?” she 
asked stiffly. 

“To what? My dear Miss Neil, have you forgotten that I 
promised to help you? To find you pupils ?” 

“I remember every word that passed between us, Lady Ashfield,” 
answered Madge quietly, ‘‘and I know that I declined to receive 
assistance from you. You treated me as though I were a madwoman 
or a liar. You would not believe my story, or help me to restore that 
poor child to her home and family. And so I told you that I would 
not take kindness from you in any shape or form. Is that not true?” 

‘Perfectly. But that was some time ago.” 

“Time can make no difference. I think the same to-night as I did 
then.” i 

Lady Ashfield shrugged her shoulders. ‘‘ You are very foolish,”’ 
she said, ‘‘ to refuse help when it is offered. You are poor.” She 
glanced round the room. ‘Your sister is delicate and requires 
chanye of air and nourishment. This story of yours will never he 
believed. And whilst you are refusing the assistance of those kind — 
enough to offer it, because they will not accept your account of the 
wreck and try to bring misery upon the Atherstones, Dora may die. 
Then, perhaps, all too late you may come to see the folly of your 
ways.” 

Madge looked at the girl upon the sofa, and her eyes filled with 
tears. 

‘Come now,” said Lady Ashfield, observing her emotion, ‘be 
sensible. It is impossible to prove this story; then let it drop. Why 
bring up such a tale when it can do you no good, and only cause 
unhappiness to others? Promise never to mention it again, and see, I. 
will give you two hundred pounds, and help you to get pupils as far 
as I can,” 

And, opening her purse, Lady Ashfield drew out a bundle of bank- 
notes and presented them to Madge. 

Uttering an exclamation of horror, the girl started back. A flood 
of crimson rushed over her neck and brow, and her eyes shone with 
an angry light. 

“Put back your money, Lady Ashfield. I am not—my silence 
never can be bought.” 

“But you are poor. It will be useful, and no one need aver 
know.” 

“ I am poor—God only knows how poor,” cried Madge, her whole 


518 The Irish Monthly. 


frame shaken with suppressed passion, “ for this day I was dismissed. 
at a month’s notice from the school in which I teach.” 

“ Madge!” Dora gave a little cry, and sat up on the sofa. 

‘‘T have not a friend in the world,” continued Madge, laying her 
hand soothingly on Dora’s head. “ But not for all the riches of the 
universe would I sell my darling’s birth-right. Did I do so, I should 
deserve to die.” 

Lady Ashfield laughed scornfully. 

“You would make a splendid actress, Miss Neil. But I must 
confess your tragic manner does not affect me. You imagine that by 
talking nonsense like this, you may impose upon me and make me 
believe your ridiculous story. But I tell you such a thing is impos- 
sible. Neither I nor any other human being will ever believe it for 
an instant. Miss Atherstone is about to marry my son, Lord 
Ashfield——.” | 

Dora started and caught Madge by the arm. 

“ And it is not probable,” she continued, “that two poor girls like 
you could ever prove that Sylvia, grand-daughter of Sir Eustace 
Atherstone, and wife of a peer of the realm, was other than what she 
is supposed to be. Give up all thoughts of such a thing. And I will 
promise you to do for you whatsoever you may ask.” 

Dora rose slowly from her seat upon the sofa, and, walking over 
to the table, leaned heavily against it. She was very pale; but her 
sweet face wore a look of strong determination. 

“ Lady Ashfield,” she said, and her voice rang out clearly through 
the room, ‘‘ do not be uneasy. Neither Madge nor I shall ever disturb 
Sylvia Atherstone.” 

“Dora !” 

Madge flung up her hands and looked wildly at her sister. 

“Think of what you are saying, dearest,” she cried in great 
agitation. ‘ Think what such a promise means.” 

“I have thought, Madge. I know it well,” and a little sob, 
cheked her utterance, ‘‘I have not forgotten what a trouble it will be 
to you, darling. But my mind is madeup. I renounce all claim to 
the name of Atherstone. Neither Sylvia. nor Lord Ashfield shall ever 
suffer in any way through me. And—and I hope they may be 
happy.” | 

Lady Ashfield smiled, and looked triumphantly at Madge. 

“ I am glad,” she said with a sneer, “ that one of you has sense. 
I suppose I may make this money over to you, my pretty Dora,” and 
again she held out the notes. 

But Dora shrank away, and flinging her arms round Madge, 
burst into tears. 





A Striking Contrast. 519 


“ Lady Ashfield,” said Madge, bitterly, ‘‘ you have obtained the 
promise you required. Put away your money, and go.” 

“You may repent your insolence before long, Miss Neil,” cried 
Lady Ashfield, angrily. ‘‘ But, as you say, I have obtained all I 
require. So I wish you good night.” 

. And putting on her cloak, she gathered up her silken skirts and 
swept proudly from the room. 


CHAPTER XXI. 
MADGE IS PERSUADED To BE SILENT. 


Dora’s sudden declaration that Sylvia should be left in the full 
enjoyment of her present happy position, filled Madge with dismay. 
Was this then to be the end of all her dreams, all her hopes for 
the future? Was this poor child to droop and pine for ever in the 
midst of dreary poverty, whilst -Sylvia spent her life in luxury, 
surrounded on all sides by the evidences of wealth and affection that 
did not lawfully belong to her? 

For some moments after Lady Ashfield’s departure the two girls 
were silent. Dora clung to Madge, her face hidden on her breast. 
her arms round her waist. She trembled violently, and, from time to 
time, a sob escaped her. 

Madge sighed heavily, and, smoothing back the golden hair, 
kissed her lovingly. 

‘You are not angry, dearest?’ whispered Dora. “ Oh, say you 
are not angry with me?”’ 

“Not angry, darling; I never could be that with you—but grieved 
and surprised. Why did you make that promise, Dora? Why did 
-cut the ground from under my feet?” 

‘‘ Because—oh, Madge, when you know her, you will feel as I do. 
Sylvia is so good, so noble, I could not do her harm.” 

“ But, dearest, that is no reason. Because Sylvia is good, you 
must not suffer. That would not be just.” 

“Just or not, I am determined not to interfere with her in any 
way. I shall remain Dorothy Neil all my life.” 

é“ But what if I object, Dora ?”’ 

' “You must not, Madge. And you will not, I am sure, when you know 
how I long to leave Sylvia in the home she believes to be her own.” 

“ But the poverty, Dora? Think of that. How can I bear to see 

you want when 1 remember what your life should be?” 








520 The Irish Monthly. 


é“ All that is at an end, Madge; we shall be poor no longer,” said 
Dora, smiling through her tears. ‘Sylvia was here to-day.” 

“Sylvia? Why did you not tell me that before ?” 

“I did not care to do so before Lady Ashfield.” 

‘‘Quite right, dearest. I forgot. But how did Sylvia find us out ? 
Who told her? Oh, darling, our position grows harder and harder.”’ 

“No, Madge, there you are wrong, Sylvia came to us as a 
ministering angel—her hands full of gifts, her heart full of love.” 

“ But we cannot accept either gifts or love.” 

“Not if we were planning her ruin. Not, if like Judas, we were 
accepting her love that it might help us to betray her. But I have 
resolved, and you, dear Madge, must agree to do like me, to become 
her friend, to take any kindness she or Sir Eustace may do us with 
gratitude, and never, by word or look, suggest that she was not born 
to the high position that she fills so nobly.”’ 

“ Oh, Dora, how can I ever agree to this?” 

“Very easily, dearest, when you think the matter out. And 
believe me, there will be no injustice done.” 

“But, Dora, what is to become of us? Mrs. Prim has dismissed 
me. In four short weeks my time at Penelope Lodge will have 
expired, and then what are we to do?” 

“ My dear, I am delighted to hear of Mrs. Prim’s dismissal. It 
will save you the trouble of dismissing her.” Dora laughed softly. 
““ Bee here, these are the addresses of ladies, friends of Sylvia’s, who 
require a music mistress for their children. You are to go there to- 
morrow, and I fancy you will not long regret the large salary you 
received at Penelope Lodge. Sylvia said these people would pay you 
handsomely. So now, dear Madge, you must not fret, but promise 
to do what I ask.” 

‘My darling, I cannot refuse you. And the hopelessness of 
proving our story tempts me to accept these offers of friendship, 
and yet my mind misgives me. I wish it had not come to this. It 
would have been better had Sylvia stayed away.” 

‘‘ Madge,” whispered Dora, with deepening colour, “ her coming, 
her goodness was not the only thing. That was not what really 
decided me. She is going to marry Lord Ashfield. His wife must be 
of noble, of high position. No act, no words of mine shall cast a 
doubt upon her, since he loves her.” 

“My darling, two wrongs do not make a right,” said Madge 
sadly. “However, I agree to do as you wish. To-morrow, I shall 
go and see these ladies.” 

So, with a heavy heart and many doubts as to the honesty of her 
conduct, Madge at last consented to be silent and gratefully accept 








A Striking Contrast. 521 


any favours that Sir Eustace might choose to bestow on her and 
Dora. 

_ And these, she soon found, were beyond anything she had eve; 
expected. There was no niggardliness in the treatment they received 
—quite the contrary; for Sir Eustace was as generous as he was 
wealthy. And Madge felt bewildered and amazed as she saw how 
effectually he was about to change their lives. She was obliged to 
leave Penelope Lodge at once. A pretty flat was taken for them in 
De Vere Gardens, and furnished in the daintiest manner possible by 
one of the first upholsterers in London. And an income sufficient to 
keep them in comfort, even luxury, was placed at their disposal by 
their kind-hearted benefactor. 

“ My dear,” he said to Madge when she remonstrated with him for 
his generosity, ‘‘do not deny me the pleasure of helping you, and so 
making up, if possible, for my long years of neglect. I was wrong to 
believe you dead—wrong not to have tried every means to discover 
you. Had your father lived, he would have filled an honourable post 
in my employment. It was my son’s great wish. He is dead, and I 
look upon you as a sacred legacy left to me by him. This little one,”’ 
he continued, laying his hand upon Dora’s head, “I shall call my 
second granddaughter. She is just my Sylvia’s age, and has been 
beside her in death, I may say. The sight of her makes me remember 
with gratitude how merciful God was, when He sent my darling safely 
home to me. You will love me, Dora, and allow me to call you my 
grandchild ? ” - 

Madge coloured deeply, and turned impatiently away. She longed 
to tell him all—to put an end to this deception. But Dora 
looked at her warningly. Then, raising her beautiful eyes to Sir 
Eustace, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him on the 
cheek. 

“Yes,” she said quietly, “ you have been very good, very kind. I 
love you dearly, and will always think of you as my grandfather. I 
have never known my father. Your affection will make up to me for 
what I have lost.” 

é Dear little fairy, your life from this day shall be a happy one,” 
he answered, returning her embrace. ‘‘ Your future is in my hands, 
and second only to Sylvia in my heart shall be my granddaughter, 
Dora.” 

And from this hour Dora was indeed happy. All idea that she 
would be living on charity, did she accept money from Sir Eustace, 
had flown away. In doing so, she was only taking part of what was 
really her own, she now argued. And so there was. nothing to 
embitter or annoy her in her present position. She loved Sylvia with 

Vou. xv No. 208. 87 


522 The Irish Monthly. 


an absorbing affection, and took willingly from her hands the many 
gifts bought for her, with what she knew to be her own money. For 
this troubled her little. She had all, and more than she required. 
She was not ambitious, and was well content to see Sylvia reign 
supreme, as mistress of her grandfather’s establishment. 

So the days that were formerly spent in dreary loneliness, heomming 
frills for Mdme. Garniture, or mourning over her helpless condition, 
were now passed in driving with Sylvia, visiting museums, picture- 
galleries, and theatres ; lunching at one house, and drinking tea at 
another. For as soon as Dora was seen with Miss Atherstone, and 
known to be her friend, invitations of all kinds poured in upon her. 

Her extreme delicacy prevented her from going out at night, and 
so she could not go to either dinner or dance. But this she did not 
regret. In the evenings she had Madge, always eager to welcome 
her back, and ever ready to listen to her accounts of all she had seen 
and done during the day. For Madge rarely took part in these rounds 
of pleasure. She lived in the pretty rooms provided by Sir Eustace, 
and kept a tender watch over her darling. But nothing would induce 
her to sit down, and eat the bread of idleness. . Their benefactor was 
generous; he was wealthy, she knew, and woyld never miss the sum 
of money he allowed them in the year. But Madge was proud. She 
had no legitimate claim upon him; she would not be dependent on 
his bounty. Through her connection with the Atherstones she soon 
obtained many well-to-do pupils. And so, though not worked so 
unceasingly as in the old times at Penelope Lodge, her days were well 
filled up. 

And as she went from place to place, her thoughts were ever full of 
Dora and her future. She felt that things could not always go on as 
they were at present, and she wondered when the end would come. 
Where was Anne Dane? What would happen when they met? 
These questions rose frequently to her lips and troubled her sadly. 
Everything was pleasant now. But she was sure this tranquillity 
could not last, and she believed that the longer they all lived as they 
were doing, the more bitter would be the change when it came. 

Yet, in spite of these misgivings, Madge was very happy. She 
rejoiced to see Dora living in comfort, prettily dressed, and temptingly 
served. She had never in all her life been so free from care, and she 
had money for all she required. 

This sudden change in the Neils’ position, and the strange manner 
in which Sir Eustace had taken them to his heart, annoyed Lady Ash- 
field extremely; and she lived in constant terror lest Dora should 
forget her resolution and tell someone the story of the wreck, that is, 
Mudge’s version of that unlucky night. Not that she believed it, but 








A Striking Contrast. 523 


that she dreaded the misery and vexation that would come upon them 
all should the suspicion of such a thing get noised abroad. Unlike 
Madge, she felt sure that every day passed by the Neils in their pre- 
sent position was a decided gain, making disclosure more impossible, 
and binding them more emphatically to silence. 

“ Were Sylvia and Ashfield safely married, it would matter but 
little,” she thought. “The settlements would be made, and such 
nonsense would nut trouble them. Sir Eustace would soon hush the 
matter up, and Sylvia, away with her husband, would never hear of 
it. Even the gossips would not believe it so easily, once she was Lady 
Ashfield. But I confess I do not understand these two. At the 
Atherstone’s ball they seemed devoted. Now—well, he goes to the 
house often, but things do not progress. He still declares they are 
nothing to each other. He is must provoking.”’ 

And as Dora saw more of Sylvia, and came to know her more 
intimately, she too wondered over her manner to Lord Ashfield. With 
him the girl was frank and gay; pleased to see him when he came, 
but indifferent as to whether he went or stayed. When he was 
absent, she rarely mentioned him, and, when she did 80, it was in a 
casual way—friendly, but nothing more. 

Lord Ashfield’s behaviour soon became as incomprehensible 
as Sylvia’s. He visited constantly at the house, drove with the girls 
in the Park, walked with them in the Row, accompanied them to 
concerts and teas. Yet, even to Dora’s inexperienced eyes, his 
demeanour was that of a privileged friend, rather than that of an 
accepted lover. All this bewildered and saddened simple Dora, yet 
she tried hard to believe in the love of these two. For they were 
engaged to be married, she knew. Lady Ashfield had said so. She 
was his mother. She must surely know. 

So Dora held aloof when Lord Ashfield was near. In the house, 
she buried herself in a book or worked industriously at her embroidery. 
In the Park and elsewhere, she gazed about her, or talked to Sir 
Eustace, doing everything she could to give her friends perfect free- 
dom in their intercourse. But all seemed of little use. Lord Ashfield 
and Sylvia would not allow her to withdraw from their society. In 
all they did and said, she must take a part. And much against her 
will Dora felt constrained to do so. 

Then followed a time of anguish—a time when Dora was one day 
miserably unhappy; the next full of joy and nervous excitement. 
She ought to have been happy, she felt. She wished, yet draaded to 
be so, for her mind was torn with doubt and the fear of causing grief 
to Sylvia. 

When she first met Lord Ashfield at the Atherstone’s, he showed 


524 The Irish Monthly. 


great pleasure at renewing their acquaintance. He was polite and 
attentive, treating her with the same consideration as he might have 
bestowed on the highest lady in the land. To her past life he never 
alluded. And when Dora thanked him tremulously for his goodness 
in discharging their debt to their cruel landlord, he implored her 
earnestly never to mention it again. It grieved him to remember it, 
for it proved how he and his mother had neglected their promise of 
helping the orphans in their hour of need. 

Full of the idea that he was engaged to Sylvia, Dora was distant 
and reserved. Since the day of the accident in Cornwall he had been 
a hero in her eyes. The sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, 
thrilled her. The feeling that he was near filled her with happiness. 
Yet Sylvia was to be his wife, and no word or look of hers should 
disturb her peace. That these two might be happy she had renounced 
her birth-right, and left Sylvia in undisputed possession of her home 
and fortune. For their sake she would do more. She would 
conquer her own heart, and kill the great love that was growing up 
within her. 

But in a short time Lord Ashfield’s conduct began to perplex 
the poor girl, then filled her with alarm. Instead of talking to Sylvia 
or Sir Eustace, he devoted himself to her. His long visits were 
spent by her chair, watching the progress of her embroidery, or 
conversing with her in low, earnest tones. To Dora the hours went 
past all too rapidly. She lived in a dream from which she frequently 
awoke with a shock, as she remembered how cruelly she was deceiving 
- herself, how bitter would be the end that would surely come to these 
blissfully happy days. 

One afternoon the girl was asked to sing. She consented and went 
to the piano. Her song was a simple setting of Mrs. Browning's 
poem :— 

“ Love strikes one hour—Love! Those never loved 
Who dream that they loved onee.”’ 


Dora sang with pathos. She forgot the company. She put her 
whole soul into her voice, and the words rang out clearly, pathetically 
through the room. 

Lord Ashfield stood by the piano. He listened with rapt attention, 
and when the last sweet note had died away, he bent his head and 
thanked her in a low whisper for the pleasure she had given him. 
Dora looked up, her thoughts full of the sad idea of the song. Their 
eyes met for an instant. A deep blush overspread the girl’s delicate 
cheek, her eyelids quivered slightly, and, rising slowly from the 
music-stool, she walked blindly to a distant seat. 








‘A Striking Contrast. 025 


The next morning Dora complained of not feeling well, and 
announced her intention of remaining at home that day. Madge was 
frightened and uneasy. 

' But Dora declared she only required rest, and implored her sister to 
leave her to herself for alittle. Madge was obliged to go out to give 
her lessons, and went away with asinking heart. She had hoped that 
Dora was outgrowing her delicacy; but now her extreme pallor 
and weakness alarmed her beyond measure. 

About three o’clock Sylvia drove round to De Vere Gardens, and 
climbing up to the flat inhabited by the Neils, insisted on carrying 
Dora off for a drive. 

“You need not come home to tea with me if you do not feel able. 
But the fresh air will do you good,” she said. ‘So out you must 
come, my sweet Dora.”’ 

Dora could never resist her dear friend, Sylvia, long; so, after a 
little judicious coaxing, she at last consented to go. 

It was a bright day in February; the air was sharp and frosty, 
but, as the girls were well wrapped up in furs, they did not feel the 
cold as they drove rapidly round the park. 

Sylvia was in high spirits. Her beautiful face was full of 
happiness; her eyes shone with some secret joy. Dora looked at her 
and wondered. she felt so depressed and weary, that it almost 
angered her to see her companion so bright and joyous. 

“What a contrast we are,” she thought, despondently. ‘She 
was born to be happy—lI to be sad. But Madge must take me away. 
I cannot—will not meet and talk to him again. Sylvia loves him. 
He—my God, help me, such a state of things will kill me. It must 
not go on.” 

Meanwhile Sylvia chattered away. If she noticed Dora’s sadness, 
she did not appear to do so, and talked incessantly of her own affairs. 
She had been to a fancy ball the night before, which had apparently 
amused her much. She laughed over her partners, criticised their 
costumes, described the decorations of the ball-room, and praised all 
the arrangements. 

é This ball seems to have excited you greatly, Sylvia,” said Dora, 
somewhat pettishly. ‘‘I never saw you so unduly elated before.” 

é“ It is not the thought of the ball, or anything that happened 
there, that makes me feel so gay, dearest,” replied Sylvia, with shining ' 
eyes; ‘but a little piece of wood news that granudpapa told me this 
morning.” 

Dora sighed, and looked out across the Serpentine. 

“I am glad you are happy, darling. 1'd— Ld do anything to 
make you so.” 


526 ‘The ha) Monthly. ° 


Sylvia glanced at her inquiringly. 

“Of course, I know you would, dearest. And I would do the 
same for you. But your happiness will be quite secure without my 
help, now. There is little doubt of that.” 

“No, Sylvia. There is no real happiness possible for me. Sir 
Eustace and you have been good and generous. You have sur- 
rounded me with comfort and luxury. I have all I wantin that way. 
But ”— 

“My dear Dora, you require change of air. You are suffering 
from depression. Grandpapa and I go into Surrey soon, to our dear, 
delightful Summerlands. ‘You must come with us. Will you?” 

“Yes; I should like to. Ido want change, dear.” 

é That will be charming. And now we shall go into the streets ; 
the park looks gloomy. “Thomas,” to the footman, ‘‘drive down 
Piccadilly and up Regent street.” 

“ Yes, miss.” 

The coachman turned his horses and went out at the Wellington 
Gate. 

After this the girls relapsed into silence. Both seemed lost in 
thought. The carriage went on as swiftly as possible through the 
crowded streets, and many heads were turned, many glances of 
admiration were bestowed upon its two lovely uccupants as it drove 
along. 

At Piccadilly Circus they were suddenly stopped, their horses kept 
back by the policeman, to allow a number of pedestrians to cross the 
road. 

A young man, well-dressed and happy looking, stood amongst the 
. crowd. As Sylvia’s carriage drew up close to him and he recognised 
the girls, he uttered an exclamation of pleasure, and raised his hat. 

“ Sylvia.” 

The girl started and looked round. Her colour deepened, and she 
smiled radiantly. 

“ Paul.” 

Her eyes met his in one long searching glance of enquiry. They 
were not near enough to speak nor shake hands. But that look told 
her much, and set her heart beating gladly, triumphantly. 

The policeman stepped aside, the horses dashed forward, and she 
was soon far away up Regent Street. 

The meeting had been short, no words had passed between the 
two, yet it filled Sylvia with joy. She had not seen Paul since the day 
in the Neils’ lodging, and the change in his appearance and bearing 
was remarkable. She had heard he was doing well, working steadily 
at his profession ; she now saw that he had recovered his self-respect, 


A. Striking Contrast. 527 


and was happy. ‘To see him thus, to know that he was leading a life 
of industry, acting as she had wished and advised him to do, was, 
indeed, a pleasure. And as he vanished from her sight she sank back 
in the carriage trembling with excitement and delight. 

Dora looked at her in surprise. What did this mean? How did 
Sylvia know Paul Vyner, the artist? What could he have to do with 
her? Why was she so agitated on seeing him? All these questions 
passed in quick succession through her mind. But she did not dare 
ask her companion why she was so much disturbed. Sylvia seemed 
unconscious of her presence. So Dora kept her thoughts to herself. 

As the carriage turned into De Vere Gardens, Sylvia started from 
her reverie. 

‘Must you really go in, Dora?” she asked. 

“Yes. I could not go home with you to-day. I must rest. I feel 
—not very well.” ' 

“ Poor little Dora! I am sorry. I wish you were happy like me.” 
Sylvia blushed deeply. ““You have seen Paul. He—you must have 
noticed my joy, my delight ut seeing him. He is going through his 
time of probation, Dora, and is doing well—nobly. Hence, my 
happiness. Good-bye.” 

Dora listened as one in a dream. She kissed Sylvia tenderly, 
and turning away swiftly, ran into the house and up the stairs. Her 
head was in a whirl; her eyes sparkled brightly; her lips were 
parted in a happy smile. The clouds of misery had suddenly rolled 
away, and her heart was beating joyfully. 

Sylvia loved Paul Vyner. Of that she was now quite certain. 
Therefore she did not love, nor could she be engaged to marry, Lord 
Ashfield. 


OHAPTER XXII. 
DORA IS TRIED BEYOND HER STRENGTH. 


That evening when Madge returned to dinner she was surprised to 
find Dora looking bright and well. She was dressed in a dainty 
white muslin, with pale blue ribbons and clouds of filmy lace. One 
lovely tea-rose nestled amongst the folds on her breast, and her golden 
hair was tastefully arranged on the top of her little head. 

Madge looked at her admiringly. She had never seen her look so 
beautiful. i 

é This is a wonderful resurrection, my pet,” she said, kissing her. 
“ Do you feel quite well this evening?” 


528 The Irish Monthly. 


“ Quite.” 

Dora fingered her rose; her colour deepened and paled again. 

“What an exquisite flower. Where did you get it ?” 

“Lord Ashfield sent it and some books. He heard I was not 
well.” 

“He is very attentive. I suppose for Sylvia’s sake he likes to be 
kind to her friend.” 

‘‘Madge”—Dora’s sweet face grew crimeon— “it is not for 
Sylvia’s sake. It is—they are not engaged.” 

Madge looked up in surprise. 

“Not engaged? My dear, you are mistaken. Lady Ashfield 
said ””— 

“Yes. But she was wrong. Sylvia cares nothing for Lord Ash- 
field, and he ”— 

Dora paused, and touched her rose with loving fingers. 

“ Well, dearest? He is grieved, I suppose?” 

‘No, I think not. I don’t fancy he cares. From things I know, 
have seen, and felt, I think he cares for someone else,” 

‘So your sacrifice, your promise not to interfere with Sylvia, was 
not necessary and will not affect him whom you wished to save from 
annoyance.” 

“No. It will not make any difference to him—at least, as far as 
Sylvia is concerned. But, Madge”’ 

Dora sank upon a chair; her colour faded, a look of anguish came 
into her eyes. 

“é What is it, darling? Are you ill?” 

Madge sprang to her side and flung her arms round her. 

“No. But an awful thought has come to me,” she gasped. “I 
have promised Lady Ashfield. I am fond of Sylvia, pledged in a 
thousand ways to keep that promise. And yet—oh, Madge”—she 
hid her face on her sister’s shoulder—‘“‘I love Lord Ashfield—and— 
if—he—should care—ask me to marry him, what shall I do?” 

Madge grew deathly pale. She pressed Dora close to her heart, 
and raised her eyes appealingly to Heaven. 

“ Oh, my God,” she murmured, “help this poor child. In Thy 
great mercy soften this trial that has come upon her. Help her to 
bear it patiently, with resignation.”’ 

“ Speak, Madge,” whispered Dora, “what shall I do?” 

““ Alas! my darling, I am afraid to tell you what I think, what 1 
feel to be the only course open to you. By your own promise, made 
in impulsive generosity to secure the happiness of this girl who had 
acted kindly towards you, you have placed yourself in a terrible 
position. Having made this promise, you cannot reveal the secret of 








A Striking Contrast. 529 


your birth, and, unless you make it known to Lord Ashfield, you 
must not marry him. The existence of such a secret, the wrong you 
would feel you had done him, and, perhaps, others you loved, would 
make you wretched—ruin your happiness and his.” 

Dora raised her head and looked at her sister wildly, despairingly ; 
then, with a deep groan, fell back unconscious in her arms. 

Full of tender pity, Madge laid her on the sofa, and bathed her 
face with eau-de-Cologne. At last she opened her eyes and looked 
around. But she was very weak, and trembled all over; so the 
pretty dress was removed, the golden hair unbound, and she was 
helped to bed by Madge’s loving hands. 

The next day Dora was seriously ill, tossing about from side to 
side in the wild delirium of fever. So Madge gave up her tuitions, 
and took her place by her darling’s bed-side. 

The girl talked strangely at times, uttered words that would surely 
have told anyone near the real state of affairs. She revealed her love 
for Lord Ashfield, her affection for Sylvia, and the false position she 
occupied. All this Madge wished to keep secret; so she stayed with 
the patient night and day, allowing no one to approach her but 
herself. 

This grieved Sylvia. She loved Dora, and longed to help to 
nurse her. But Madge was stern; she would admit no one, and 
Sylvia was obliged to content herself with making enquiries at the 
door, and sending delicacies that might tempt the poor invalid to eat. 

Lord Ashfield came constantly to De Vere Gardens. Madge was 
touched by his evident anxiety about Dora, and felt sorry when she 
saw the great love he bore her. His extreme earnestness and 
nobility of character, his kind and thoughtful ways, won her heart, 
and impressed her with a thorough belief in his goodness. 

é“ What a noble fellow he is! How gladly would I give my 
darling to him,” she thought, after one of his many visits. ‘‘ And, if 
she gets well, perhaps’’—— 

But then, with a thrill of pain, she would remember the barrier 
that Dora had placed between herself and happiness. For to 
Madge’s honest mind, a promise was as binding as an oath. Without 
Dora’s co-operation her hands were tied. She was not bound to 
silence by any promise, but she was powerless. She could do nothing. 
Her speaking would be utterly useless, unless Dora were free to stand 
beside her, and vouch for the truth of her story. This she could not 
do now, and she could see nothing but sorrow and disappointment for 
the poor girl in her future life. 

For many days Dora was in imminent peril, and Madge was wild 
with grief She watched her every movement with a heart full of 


530 The Irish Monthly. 


pain, and offered fervent prayers to God that He would be merciful 
and spare her darling. Then, at last, the fever passed away, and the 
patient came slowly back to life. The doctors pronounced her out of 
danger, and gave great hopes of her ultimate recovery. 

But her convalescence was long and trying. She seemed weary of 
living, and expressed neither wish nor hope that she might grow 
stronger. This apathy filled Madge with terror. What if her pet 
should fade away and die in spite of the doctors? And, as she gazed 
at the girl as she lay listless and indifferent upon the sofa, she longed 
for something to rouse and interest her. 

Dora was now but the shadow of her former self. Her long golden 
hair had been cut close to her head; her figure had shrunk, and was 
thin to attenuation. Her chest, always narrow, had a look of con- 
traction, painful to behold; her face was white and wan, and her 
lovely. eyes were abnormally large, and surrounded with wide, black 
circles. 

During all this dreary time, the girl’s friends were constant in 
their attentions. But Dora would see no one. She begged to be left 
alone. Nothing daunted, Sylvia continued to implore for admission, 
and, after some time, the invalid yielded, and allowed her to pay her 
a visit. The sight of the girl’s beautiful face did her good, and 
renewed the deep affection she had always had for her. Sir Eustace 
speedily followed in his granddaughter’s footsteps, and Dora received 
‘him with something like an expression of pleasure in her weary eyes. 

é“ You must have change of air to brace you and set you up, my 
dear,” he said. ‘‘ Sylvia and I go down to Summerlands next week. 
You must come with us.” 

Dora protested feebly. She did not wish to leave home. Then 
Madge was appealed to. What did she think ?” 

“I must ask the doctor, Sir Eustace. If he says it will agree 
with Dora, she shall go. I am sure-it would be very good for her.” 

Change of air was exactly what she required, declared the doctor 
on his next visit, and Summerlands the place of all others that he 
would recommend. It was bracing and healthy. 

So, notwithstanding Dora’s disinclination to move, all arrange- 
ments were made, and it was resolved that in a few days she should 
travel down into Surrey, in a close carriage with Sir Eustace and 
Sylvia. Madge, who had some affairs to settle in town, would follow 
in as short a time as possible. Meanwhile she knew her darling 
would be in good hands and would be carefully and lovingly tended. 

On the afternoon before the day of her departure for the country, 
Dora seemed restless and excited. She appeared anxious to say 
something to Madge, yet apparently dreaded to speak. 








A Striking Contrast. 531 


Madge was busily occupied in packing, and did not at first notice 
the girl’s nervous manner. But after a time, something unusual in 
her appearance caused her to pause in her work, and then she 
remarked, with wonder, the burning spot upon each wan cheek. 

“What is it, pet? Are you not feeling well?” she cried 
anxiously. ‘Shall we postpone this visit to Summerlands? You can 
go down with me. I'll write ””»—— 

“No, no, Madge. We must make no change. I am restless— 
that is all. I want to get away.” She covered her face with her 
almost transparent hands. ‘I dread, yet long to see, Lord Ashfield.” 

“My darling!” 

“You may, perhaps, see him, Madge, and I want you to tell 
him dean 

The servant suddenly opened the door. 

‘Tf you please, Miss Neil, there is a gentleman outside, who 
wishes very particularly to see Miss Dora.” 

é“ A gentleman ?”’ 

‘Yes, miss. Lord Ashfield.” 

Dora gave a little cry, and fell back upon her pillow. 

é“ You shall not see him, dearest,” cried Madge. ‘ You must say 
that Miss Dora is not able to receive visitors, Mary. Or stay, I will 
speak to him myself.”’ 

‘‘Madge!” Dora caught her dress and would notlet her go. “I 
must see him. Mary, admit Lord Ashfield.” 

é This is foolish. You are too ill—too weak, Dora.” 

‘No, my joy will give me strength.” 

And it seemed as though she was right. For when Lord Ashfield 
took her hand and asked her how she felt, she answered quietly that 
she was better, and begged him to sit down. 

Madge could not but wonder at this sudden change. - All trace of 
nervousness had vanished. The feverish colour had faded from her 
cheeks, and she was now white as alabaster. And in her eyes was a 
look of peace, an expression of content, that Madge had not seen in 
them for months. 

“ Bhe loves him, ah, how dearly, my poor darling,” she thought 
with anguish. “How will it all end?” And unable to check the 
rising tears, she hurried from the room. 

When Lord Ashfield found himself face to face with this girl, 
whom he tenderly loved, he was deeply agitated. He was shocked at 
her appearance. He had not met her since that afternoon at the 
Atherstone’s, when she had touched him greatly by the beautiful 
pathos of her song. And now? But he soon recovered his usual 
calm demeanour, and Dora had not a notion of what he suffered. 


532 The Irish Monthly. 


“ My God, what a change these weeks of illness have made in this 
poor child,” he thought. ‘ Will she ever be strong? Could care, 
love, and affection bring roses to her cheeks, strength and health to 
her limbs ? ” 

But Dora’s sweet voice disturbed his reverie, recalled him to 
himself. 

“It is very good of you to come to see me, Lord Ashfield,’ she 
said. ‘‘ But you were always kind and” 

“Good of me!” he cried passionately. ‘Oh, Dora, do you not 
know that I have been at your door morning and night? Do you not 
know that all my hopes of happiness are centred in your recovery ? 
That, had you died—I—my life would have been a blank—for I love 
you, darling, and have but one wish on earth—to win you as my 
wife.” 

Dora gazed at him with dilated eyes and heightened colour. She 
tried to speak, but no sound came forth. 

“Have you nothing to say, Dora? Have I startled you? 
Frightened you by my eager words? You are weak. I should not 
have spoken so soon. But oh, my love, my love, these days have 
seemed long and weary, yearning as I have been, to know my fate. 
Do you love me? Can you be my wife?” 

Dora lowered her eyes. She could not bear to meet that tender, 
pleading glance. Her heart was his, but she dared not say so. 
Between them and happiness lay the secret of her birth, and the 
promise she had made never to reveal it. 

“No,” she said, and her words were so low that he had to bend 
forward to catch them. ‘I cannot be your wife” . 

Lord Ashfield staggered to his feet. His face was livid; his eyes 
full of sorrow and disappointment. 

“Do you mean this?” he asked in tremulous accents. ‘‘ Have I 
been deceived—have all my efforts been in vain? Do you not—could 
you not love me—even a little, my darling ? ” 

The girl looked up, her face full of radiant light, her lips parted 
in a happy smile. ‘Oh, yes, I love you dearly,” she whispered low. 

“Then,” he cried, flinging himself on his knees by the couch, and 
taking her little hand in his, ‘‘ why can you not marry me? If you 
love me, why do you hesitate ?”’ 

“ Because ”’—Dora drew herself away from him— “I cannot, I dare 
not. There is a reason.” 

‘‘A reason? My darling, surely that is impossible. If we love 
each other, what reason can there be to prevent our marriage? Tell 
me whatitis. I” 

‘‘T cannot,” murmured Dora, faintly. ''Itisa secret. Madge——’’ 








A Striking Contrast. 533 


“Madge!” he cried indignantly, and he spoke in such a loud tone 
that the girl believed he wanted her, and came in at once from the 
adjoining room. 

“Did you call me, Lord Ashfield ? ” 

“4 No; but as you are here, perhaps you can explain matters a 
little.” And, leaving the sofa, he looked at her anxiously. As he 
did: so, he felt strongely moved. Madge seemed in great sorrow. 
Her eyes were red as with much weeping. 

é“ Explain what, Lord Ashfield?” she asked, glancing quickly at 
Dora. 

‘‘T have asked: your sister to marry me,” he said with deep 
emotion. ‘I love her with all my soul. She—TI thank God for it— 
confesses that she returns my love, but declares she cannot marry me, 
and that there is some secret reason why our marriage should never 
take place. She mentioned you; can you tell me what it is?” 

“ Your mother can give you all the information you require, Lord 
Ashfield, if she chooses.” 

“Madge!” Dora stared at her in surprise. “You cannot wish 
Lady Ashfield to do that ?” 

‘‘T would wish her to do anything that will end this mystery, and’ 
perhaps, lead to your happiness, dearest. Lord Ashfield is generous ; 
he would spare his friends, I am sure ”’ 

Lord Ashfield started violently. He felt perplexed and annoyed. 
What was this mystery? Why should he be generous? Was it 
possible there was any disgrace attached to these girls, who had always 
seemed so perfect in his eyes. No; that could not be. Such a thing 
was impossible; and, yet? 

He looked earnestly at Dora; but she had turned away her head, 
and was weeping silently upon her pillow. This sight filled him with 
compassion. He remembered only his love. 

“ My darling,” he cried, “do not weep. Keep this secret, what- 
ever it may be; I can trust both you and Madge; so look up, Dora, 
and say you will be my wife.” 

Dora made no response. Her slight frame was shaken with sobs, 
but she did not take any notice of his fervent prayer. 

“My sister has already been tried beyond her strength, Lord 
Ashfield,” said Madge, sadly. ‘‘She is too weak for a scene of this 
kind. She has given you the only answer it is in her power to give. 
To marry you with this secret in her heart would be fatal to your 
happiness. She is not now at liberty to reveal it.” 

“ But my mother, she knows all? Ah! alight breaks in upon 
me. It was because of this that you—that my mother quarrelled 
with you the first time she saw you.” 





534 The Irish Monthly. 


Madge blushed deeply, but she raised her head proudly, and 
looked at Lord Ashfield. 

“Yes, it was, partly. Lady Ashfield would not believe my word.” 

é Then this secret is connected with you, not Dora?” 

‘¢’ Pray ask no more, Lord Ashfield; it is Dora’s wish and your 
mother’s that I should be silent. But this secret must surely leak 
out sooner or later. However in the meanwhile, please believe that 
there is nothing to be ashamed of in it; nothing the least disgraceful 
to either Dora or me ”— 

“I can well believe that,” he cried. ‘‘And now, good-bye, I 
must see my mother, and implore her to reveal this secret to me at 
once. When I know all, Dora may then consent to be my wife.” 

“I hope so most sincerely ; but Lady Ashfield has other views for 
you—she may not be willing to tell you all she knows.” 

“She must. My mother and I do not always agree in small 
matters, but I generally manage to make her do what I wish.” 


(Zo be continued.) 


TO THE NIGHT. 


\ OST holy night, that still dost keep 
The keys of all the doors of sleep, 
To me, when my tired eyelids close, 
Give thou repose. 


And bid the drowsy songs of them 

That chant the dead day’s requiem 

Make in my ears, who wakeful lie, 
Soft lullaby. 


Bid them that guard the hornéd moon 

By my bedside their memories croon ; 

So shall I have strange dreams and blest 
In my brief rest. 


Fold thy great wings about my face, 
Hide day-dawn from my resting place, 
And cheat me with thy false delight, 


Most holy Night. 
HrLarnE BELLoc. 


535 


GOOD-BYE TO OBER-AMMERGAU TILL 1900. 


4 ae valley of the Ammer, nearly three thousand feet above 

the level of the sea, is cool and fresh and green, with a 
freshness and greenness born of mountain rains and mountain 
streams. It is closed in at its upper end by lofty peaks, over 
whose pine-clad crags wreaths of white mist often linger, as though 
entangled among the trees. The hills at the other end are less 
rugged, being grass-grown on their lower slopes, and appear to 
merge finally into the level uplands. Through the valley flows 
the Ammer, its gently moving waters giving life to the quiet 
scene. The two villages of the valley, Ober-Ammergau and 
Unter-Ammergau, are built upon its banks. The former consists 
of a number of houses with high, red-brown roofs, somewhat 
irregularly arranged, the intervening spaces forming grass-grown 
streets, and sometimes small gardens. Wooden foot-bridges span 
the Ammer, a portion of whose waters has been diverted from 
their course to turn a saw-mill. The houses are two stories, each 
containing several small rooms. There are no huts or cabins to 
be seen, and the whole place wears an air of homely prosperity 
very pleasant to witness. ‘The inhabitants are a fine race, well- 
built and good-looking. Ido not think I have seen a mean face 
since Í came here, some of the visitors, of course, excepted. Such 
of the villagers as take part in the play generally wear their hair long, 
which gives them a picturesque appearance. I often meet St. 
John, who takes off his hat to me, and St. Peter once set me right 
when I had lost my way. I regret to say, however, that I saw two 
little long-haired angels smoking cigar stumps in a quiet nook by 
the river, a state of affairs for which some of the tourists are 
probably responsible. 

The church, which stands near the river at the upper 
end of the village, is a spacious building in the renasoence 
style. To me it appears much too highly decorated. There are 
always a number of priests among the visitors, and most of these 
say Mass in the church, the result being a constant succession of 
Masses for two or three hours in the early morning, four or five 
being often said at the same time. Rows of priests of various 








. 


536 The Irish Monthly. 


ranks and nationalities sit in the choir awaiting their turn. 
Purple-capped dignitaries, white-robed Dominicans, brown Fran- 
ciscans, secular priests in their graceful soutanes and birettas, all 
lend picturesqueness and variety to the scene, which forms a fitting 
prelude to the play. 

There are few subjects on which we hear so many and such 
varied opinions as the Passion Play. There are some, usually 
those who have not seen it, who speak of it with strong disappro- 
bation. They consider any attempt to put such a subject on the 
stage revolting, irreverent, wrong ; while others are enthusiastic in 
their praise, and say that the play has enabled them to realise th- 
scenes it represents in a way that would have been otherwise 
impossible. Certainly there are associations connected with the 
modern stage which make us shrink at first thought from using it 
as a medium for the representation of religious subjects. But we 
must remember that the Ober-Ammergau play has its roots deep 
down in the middle ages when such associations were unknown, 
and when the drama was considered quite as appropriate a means 
of bringing religion home to the people as either painting or 
sculpture. It is true that the vow of which the Passion Play is the 
fulfilment was not made until 1633, but it is not to be supposed 
that the idea of it originated with the people of Ober-Ammergau. 
The mysteries and miracle plays which were performed in England 
in the sixteenth century probably lingered much later in the 
Bavarian Highlands, and the actors in the first Passion Play had, 
doubtless, seen many rude attempts at similar subjects. It seemed 
to them as fitting a means of doing honour to God as it would to- 
day seem to us to paint a picture or chisel a statue. And this 
germ of faith and gratitude has never died out, though it has 
developed into something of which the original actors never 
dreamed. It is living, and therefore possesses the power of 
assimilation, and it has taken to itself and incorporated with its 
own substance modern ideas in literature and art, and utilised the 
products of modern science. The original actors would not recog- 
nise their play in its present guise, but the two are identical. The 
Passion Play of to-day is the result of the labour and thought of 
generations, while the artistic and dramatic powers of the actors 
are inherited instincts, fostered by their occupation and surround- 
ings 


We are seldom able to realise what we read for ourselves as 








Good-bye to Ober-Ammergau. 537 


thoroughly as we do that which we have seen dramatically repre- 
sented. I do not think that any amount of reading or meditation 
on the Gospels would enable us to comprehend the hatred of the 
Jewish priests for Our Lord, or the manner in which they hunted 
him to death, so clearly as we do in seeing the Ober-Ammergau 
play. Their discussions among themselves ; their interviews with 
Judas; the pressure they put upon Pilate and Herod; the manner 
in which they influence the people ; all these show the malignity 
of their hatred, and the desire by which they are, as it were, 
possessed to compass the death of the man whose precept and 
example are, as they fear, undermining their prestige and 
authority. The principal scenes of the Passion are familiar to us 
from painting and sculpture, but no picture can bring them so 
vividly before our eyes as do these scenes where voice and motion 
lend their aid to form and colour in the realization of those 
tremendous events in the history of our race. 

The way in which the crowds of people, priests, merchants, 
artisans, Roman soldiers, women, and children are moved hither and 
thither, not only without confusion, but so as always to present an 
effective appearance, shows considerable knowledge of stage busi- 
ness; the correctness of detail in dresses and accessions would 
satisfy an antiquary, while their harmonious colouring and graceful 
folds would delight an artist. 

The people shout simultaneously, so that every word is audible, 
and the effect of these shouts is very fine. The tableaux vivants, 
of which one or two are given before each scene, are perfect in 
themselves, and yet the man who arranges them, grouping the ' 
figures, and combining the colours, is a simple workman, a wood 
carver. The stuffs for the dresses are procured, some from Munich, 
some from the East, but they are made up in the village. They 
are all picturesque, while those of the priests, Herod and Pilate, are 
magnificent. The Christus is clad in dull lavender and purplish 
crimson, St. John in rich, dark crimson over soft yellowish green, 
Peter in greyish blue and yellow, Judas in a sort of orange terra- 
cotta and yellow, while some of the other apostles are in subdued 
tints which tone down and harmonise with the brightness of their 
companions. 

Most of the spectators seem to me to look on the play merely 
from an artistic point of view, as a sort of pageant or succession of 
pictures, but the text as it stands at present, revised and rearranged 

Vou, xvur. No. 208. 88 





038 The Irish Monthly. 


by the late parish priest, Herr Daisenberg, possesses literary and 
dramatio qualities of no mean order. It adheres when possible to 
the words of Scripture, but when these have to be amplified, as 
in the discussions among the priests, and their interviews with 
Judas, the language forms no unworthy setting for that of the 
inspired writers. But it is in the conception of some of the 
characters that the wonderful dramatic power of the play is most 
apparent. The character of a Christus cannot, of course, be dis- 
cussed. But Joseph Mayer brings to the part a dignity and 
sweetness of demeanour which is all the more wonderful when we 
remember that his features are somewhat heavy, their beauty being 
altogether that of expression. He seems to have lived up to his 
part for so many years that his face has acquired the stamp of 
holiness. He is very tall and singularly graceful in his every 
movement. His voice is deep and sweet, and his articulation 
perfect. 

The part of the Blessed Virgin is in the text full of beauty and 
dignity. The girl who undertakes the part does not, I think, do 
it full justice. If the same part is intrusted to her m 1900, she 
will probably realize it better. 

But as it is the shades which bring out the pictures, we should 
expect to find the most power shown in the characters of Judas and 
Pilate, and such is the case. Judas as here depicted is at first a 
man free from crime, but totally devoid of imagination, and giving 
all his thoughts to the sordid cares of life, and all his anxiety to 
the securing of his own future. This is indicated in the first words 
he speaks: “ But, Master, when Thou hast given away Thy life, 
what will become of us?’ He has apparently joined the ranks of 
the disciples as a means of livelihood, being in this, as in all else, a 
type of the unworthy priest. He again expresses his anxiety for 
his own future when Christ warns him, telling him to beware lest 
the tempter overtake him. The warning is disregarded, however, 
and Judas left alone explains that he had hoped the Master would 
restore the kingdom of Israel, but that he allows every opportunity 
of doing so to pass by. He himself has hoped and waited long, 
but he has become tired of hoping and waiting, and now that 
trouble appears to be coming on the Master he means to withdraw 
from the company of the disciples and seek some other means of 
livelihood. He has taken advantage of his post of purse-bearer to 
lay aside something for himself, and he again bewails the wasted 


Good-bye to Ober-Ammergau. 539 


ointment, and thinks how its value would have added to his store. 
His lack of imagination makes him unable to understand the 
Master, of whose divinity he is apparently quite unconscious, while 
the same defect blinds him to the designs of the priests. When at 
length, his treachery accomplished, the plain words, “Noch vor 
dem Feste soll der Galilaer sterben,’”’ bring the truth home even to 
his dull mind, his agony is fearful to witness. “ What have I 
done? Must He die? I did not intend that. I will not have 
that.” He wanders about trying to obtain tidings, and finally 
makes his way into the presence of Caiphas and the priests, who 
reiterate their determination, ‘“‘ Er muss sterben,”’ and when Judas 
tries to shift the responsibility from himself by protesting, as Pilate 
does later, that he is free from blood-guiltiness, they tell him con- 
temptuously, “Thy Master must die, and thou hast given him up 
to death.” Judas here flings back the purse containing the thirty 
pieces of silver and goes out, telling the priests that they shall sink 
with him into the depths of hell. His despair becomes more and 
more terrible; the same want of imagination which prevents his 
understanding his Master is also an obstacle to his finding comfort 
in the thought of pardon, and throughout his passionate self- 
upbraiding there is scarcely a word which shows his knowledge of 
who it is he has betrayed. His regrets are for the kind Master, the 
guiltless man who is to die, not for the outraged God. He does 
indeed express a wish that he could once more behold his Master’s 
face, and cling to him, the only safety. But he seems incapable 
of understanding the real nature of Him whom he has betrayed, 
and because he cannot stand face to face with Him and express his 
sorrow, he deems himself without hope or safety, and resolves “ to 
breathe away his accursed life.” The curtain falls as he loosens 
his girdle and prepares to bind it round his neck. 

The name of Pontius Pilate has come down to posterity in the 
words of the creed as that of the person responsible for the death 
of the Saviour ; in irony, as it were, of his weak attempt to cast off 
that responsibility. Those who are familiar with the Gospel 
narrative know that he was but the unwilling instrument of the 
Jewish priests, but I think even to them the character of Pilate as 
set forth at Ober-Ammergau must be a revelation. The actor who 
takes the part is a man of considerable dramatic power, and suc- 
ceeds in enlisting our sympathies on behalf of the Roman noble 
whose loftiness of character inclines him to reverence the Teacher 





540 The Irish Monthly. 


of whose wondrous deeds he has already heard; while his judicial 
mind and innate sense of justice compel him to see that the charges 
brought by the priests are, even if true, quite inadequate as the 
basis of a death sentence. He is much impressed by the 
countenance and bearing of Christ, and some glimmer of the truth 
seems even to have reached his mind. “ Who knows,” he says, 
“ that this man may not be the son of some god?” But, Roman 
though he is, he has not sufficient force of character to enable him 
to hold to the right, or perhaps it is becatise he is a Roman that he 
is ready, Brutus like, to sacrifice his own feelings and sense of 
justice to the welfare of Rome, which would be compromised by the 
enmity of the Jewish priesthood. And when he finds himself 
yielding to the pressure of the priests, he pleads for the prisoner 
before him in eloquent and pathetic words. 

é Is then your hatred of this man so deep and bitter,” he says, 
“that even the sight of His bleeding wounds cannot satisfy it ? 
You force me to speak my thoughts plainly. Urged on by 
unworthy passion, you persecute him because the people follow Him 
rather than you.” 

And when Pilate has been, as it were, caught in his own toils, 
and his confident appeal to the people has, through the unscru- 
pulous manoeuvres of the priests, resulted in the choice of 
Barabbas, and the cry of “ Crucify him, crucify him,” he breaks 
forth, “I cannot understand these people. But a few days since 
you led this man through the streets of Jerusalem with shouts and 
rejoicings. Can it be possible that it is the same people who 
to-day demand his death? Such fickleness is past belief.” 

And when Barabbas has been brought out, and Pilate shows 
him to the people, he says: “ Look upon these two men; the one 
of gentle aspect, dignified demeanour, the type of a wise teacher, 
in which character you yourselves have long honoured him ; 
guiltless of a single evil deed. The other—a hateful, lawless 
being, a criminal. I appeal to your better judgment, to your: 
feelings of humanity—which shall I release to you, Barabbas, or- 
Jesus who is called Christ P ” 

And when the people have repeated the expression of their 
choice, and the priests demand the fulfilment of his promise to 
abide by that choice, he tells them that he yields to their demands 
to avert a greater evil. He calls out his secretary, who reads the 
death sentence in due form, and Pilate says, in a voice which he. 


Good-bye to Ober-Ammergau. 541 


can scarcely keep steady,: “ Now take him and crucify him.” He 
breaks his wand of office, flings aside the fragments, and goes 
hastily into his house, as if able to bear no more. 

The actor who plays Pilate is St. John’s father. He is also 
the understudy for the Christus, and takes the part when Mayer is ill. 
I have been told that he plays it exceedingly well, but that, as his 
own hair and beard are short, he has to wear false ones, which is a 
pity, one of the charms of the play being the absence of make-up 
on the part of the actors. St.John will, in all probability, be the 
Christus of 1900. He will then be just the right age, and will play 
the part to perfection ; but I doubt if he will have the dignity of 
the present Christus. 

I once got into conversation with the old grandmother of the 
house in which I was staying, and obtained from her certain scraps 
of information concerning the players of former years. Franzisk 
Pflunger, the Mary of ’50 and ’60, is still living in a neighbouring 
village. She has four daughters, one of whom is settled in Munich. 
The Mary of ’70 and ’80 is also married and gone from Ober- 
Ammergau. Tobias Pflunger, the Christus of ’50 and ’60, only 
died a few years since. The old woman, who must have been his 
contemporary, showed me a photograph of him which hung with 
many others on the walls of the little sitting-room, saying with a 
bitter sigh, that she thought he was “schéner” than the present 
Christus. I agreed with her that it was “ schóner.” It was a beauti- 
ful face, but far less expressive than Mayer. 

In thinking over this play in the past and present, one cannot 
help wondering what will be its future. 

Will the often repeated threats of suppression be carried out ? 
Or will a middle course be adopted, and the people of Ober- 
Ammergau be allowed to carry out their vow on condition of 
allowing no strangers to witness the performance? In this case 
they could no longer afford the costly dresses, and the zeal of the 
less conscientious might flag when deprived of the stimulus of 
admiration. But the vitality of the play is too strong to be 
crushed out by circumstances, and such suppression could only be 
temporary. Let us hope, however, that no such period of darkness 
is in store for the inhabitants of Ober-Ammergau, and that their 
play may go on, unchanged in essentials, but improving decade by 
decade in its external features, and affording as much pleasure and 
edification to the audiences of the twentieth ceutury as it has done 
to those of the nineteenth. K. R. 


The Irish Monthly. 


CARDINAL NEWMAN. 
In Memortam. 


08: great, pure soul, gone from our earth ! 
Finished is now thy mortal life. 
God, in His kindness, lent thee long 
To this dark world of sin and strife ; 
And, in His tender love to thee, 
Ordained that, purified below, 
Thou might’st on rapid wings ascend 
To where bright “angel faces” glow. 


Consecrate from thy early youth, 
As if some instinct, dim, abstruse, 
Warned thee no earthly tie must bind ; 
That so thy Church for highest use 
A mind so rich in varied gifts, 

And heart in graces rare, could claim, 
Set as choice gem upon her brow, 

And ’mid her saints enroll thy name. 


The world can ill afford to lose 
A soul so true, so strong, so sweet ; 
But Heaven has won another saint, 
And angels fit companion greet. 
From off that distant, shadowy shore, 
Oh, come there not some echoes dim, 
Borne on our eager, straining sense, 
Of that seraphic, holy hymn ? 


Yet mighty leader in the realms 
Of thought and spirit, thou hadst foes, 
As they must ever have whose aims 
Are highest, purest,—who ’mid throes 
Of deep heart-anguish, leaving all, 
Follow o’er dim and tangled ways, 
And toilsome hills, the white bird, Truth, 
Led on through gloom by heavenly rays. 


Yes, there were those who dared defame 
That noble spirit, failed to know 

A great soul and a master-mind— 
What matter, since to this we owe 


Cardinal Newman. 48 


That record of his inmost life, * 

With all its struggles, doubts, unrest, 
Ending in perfect peace at last, 

Peace here, and peace now with the blest. 


Oh, how our hearts seemed knit to his, 

_ As by some strange and mystic power, 

In all his upward strivings, griefs— 
And it was in that very hour, 

When time and space between seemed nought, 
The sad news came that he was dead, 

We never now could see that face— 
That vague but cherished dream was fled. 


In pace requiescat ! Slow 
And solemn swells the Requiem Mass; 
On through the black-draped, silent church 
The deep, pathetic echoes pass. 
And as the laden censers swing, 
And on the heavy, odorous air 
The last sad De Profundis sounds, 
Entreat we, in our turn, his prayer. 


Oh, saintly soul, for ever safe! 

Pray for us, that the ‘ kindly light ”” 
Which led thee on o’er “moor and fen,” 

O’er “‘ crag and torrent,” through the night, 
May guide our steps—where’er it will— 

And may we follow, blind to all, 
Save only to that heavenly beam, 

And deaf to every earthly call. 


The “ one thing needful” but our thought ; 
What of it, should we suffer pain ? 
When the sweet Voice Divine we hear, 
Saying ; “ My child, "tis for thy gain, 
Follow thou Me,” as Newman heard, 
And, hearing, ever onward pressed, 
On, with pure heart and steadfast aim, 
On—to the perfect Morn, and rest. 


M. NETHERcoTT. 


* The Apologia, which the writer was reading when the news came of Cardinal 
Newman’s death, 





544 The Irish Monthly. 


ST. YVES OF BRITTANY. 


é“ Sanctus Yvo erat Brito, 
Advocatus et non latro : 
Res miranda populo.’’—Old Rhyme. 
'T'RE Rome of the stranger who dwells but for a time within 
her walls may truly be said to comprise many little worlds 
within its own. There is the mere tourist who comes to “do” his 
Rome, as much of it as he can accomplish under favour of Messrs. 
Cook or his Baedeker; there is the visitor who has established 
himself to spend his winter there, and enjoy its mingled educational, 
climatic, and social advantages; there is the historian and 
antiquarian, full of eager interest in ruins and relics, in brick and 
stone, in sites and scenes, which every corner and cranny are holding 
for him in fullest profusion ; and there is the pilgrim proper, who 
has come to revel in all ecclesiastic Rome can yet give of ceremony 
and shrine, of memories and worships, of the footsteps of the dead 
saints and of their living successors. 

Yet with all these varied vocations, these multitudinous and 
keen-eyed interests, there is one little corner in her midst which we 
will venture to assert that many of these Rome-lovers have missed, 
and so guess not at its peculiar associations of half romantic, half 
clerical interest. When they visit the Church of San Luigi dei 
Francesi, the national shrine of the once Eldest Daughter of the 
Church, they probably pass without notice a little old, very 
obscure church, in the Via Ripetta, a few steps only distant from 
that well-known national sanctuary, and bearing over its dim portals 
the following inscription :— 

“Divo Yvoni, Treconensi pauperum et viduarum advocato 
Natio Britanins sdem hano jam pridem consecratam restauravit, 
Anno 1568.” 

“ In the year 1568, the nation of Brittany restored this church, 
already consecrated to St. Yves of Tréguier, the advocate of the 
poor and of the widow.” 

For this humble sanctuary, so insignificant and unnoticed 
now-a-days, claims the proud distinction of being a Nationaé 
Church, no less than is its sister, St. Louis de France, hard by. It 





St. Yees of Brittany. 545 


is the Church of the Breton nation—a people strongly conservative, 
closely tenacious of their own rights and privileges, resenting every 
appearance of similitude to, and disdaining compatriotism with, their 
kindred in the East, and proudly, if a little comically, designating 
themselves as not Frenchmen, but Bretons. Merged, to the eye of 
Europe, in the greater State, their care has but been the greater to 
preserve all Breton rights and usages, and Breton pilgrims, 
repairing to Rome in pilgrim-days, received the gift of a separate 
church and hospice, served by Bretons and dedicated to a saint of 
their own nation, where year by year the feasts of their country 
were celebrated, and all Rome flocked thither to listen to the 
panegyric of their great patron, the protector of the lawyer and of 
his poorer clients. 
-When the “Duchess Anne,” whose massive tower still uplifts 

its grim walls beside Duguesclin’s fortress, bestowed, with herself, 
her still fairer heritage of Brittany upon the king of France, the 
freedom and glory of the Duchy died out ; and by degrees, through 
the jealousy of France, the administration of this little Breton 
church in Rome became merged in that of the more important 
French one, its revenues added to those of St. Louis, and its rights 
slowly but surely swamped, in spite of some pitiful protests from 
the States of Brittany. At first the clergy of San Luigi dei 
Francesi were bound to number among them two curates of 
Breton origin; but gradually this rule fell into disuse, and the 
-old but venerable building, filled with Breton altars, tombs, and 
inscriptions, is all but deserted and absolutely without revenues or 
ecclesiastical status, so that the very confraternity which bears its 
own and its patron’s name—that of St. Yves, for lawyers only, 
now holds its meetings in another church. According to a recent 
account of this confraternity, said still to exist, the lawyers who 
form-its members (some of the most distinguished legal luminaries 
in Rome) meet together every Sunday, and after reciting certain 
prayers, retire to an adjoining room to examine together the 
various civil causes in which poor persons may have become 
engaged. If the cause of such poor person appears to be a just 
one, the confraternity, in the person of one of its members, under- 
takes, gratuitously, his or her defence. The Archconfraternity is 
composed of a Cardinal-Protector, a Prelate, who must be a 
member of the magistrature, and a number of associates. Any 
poor man who wishes for the help of the society must address his 


= 


546 The Irish Monthly. 


request for aid to the Cardinal-Protector, who sends it to one of 
the members to lay before the meeting. This associate examines 
the case, and if the two conditions of poverty and a just cause are 
found to be fulfilled, an advocate is chosen by the brethren 
assembled from among their number, and an eloquent defence in 
court not seldom follows, for, as we have said, some of the most 
illustrious of the Roman lawyers are numbered in its ranks. 

Another chapel and confraternity of St. Yves were erected at 
Paris in the year 1348, and this confraternity also was principally 
composed of lawyers and priests. It flourished up to the time of 
the Revolution, and the chapel became the resort of all who were 
in legal difficulties, and was said to be thronged with people of 
every class, from the prince to the peasant, who came to beg for 
success in their undertakings and a favourable decision in the 
causes in which they were engaged; while successful claimants 
would bring copies of the judgments obtained, and hang them 
upon the walls as ex-votos. The ancient Cathedral of Paris had a 
special office of St. Yves among its rites, and a curious and 
interesting picture of the Saint was hung on its all-embracing 
walls, presented by a Breton Seigneur, and representing St. Yves 
prostrate before the Blessed Virgin, presenting to her, on one side 
the lawyers of France, and on the other all those who were 
engaged in legal suits. 

There is a story told in Rome—or, perhaps, rather there teas 
one—for the little ecclesiastical quips and jokes with which the air 
of old Rome was once so full, must all be stifled and forgotten 
now, In that new city of bricks and mortar, railways and 
placards—however, there was, we say, a story running thus: 
Among all the professions and trades of civilisation, each of which 
boasted their own special patron saint—as St. Luke for the painter, 
St. Crispin for the shoemaker, BS. Cosmas and Damian for the 
physician, St. George and St. Maurice, in his fair youthful 
strength, for the soldier, St. Nicholas for both sailor and merchant, 
as well as for “ good children” of every clime, St. Hubert for the 
huntsman, St. Barbara, with her tower, for the armourers and 
gunsmiths, St. Phocas for gardeners, St. Cecilia for musicians, St. 
Blaise for woolcombers, St. Eloi for goldsmiths, locksmiths, and 
all kinds of metal workers, St. Julian Hospitator for ferry-men 
and boatmen, St. Geneviéve for shepherdesses, and so on—the 
lawyers, alone of them all, found no saint to bless the craft. And 








St. Yves of Brittany. 547 


so, one day a deputation from their number waited upon the then 
reigning Pontiff, and besought him that he would name some 
saint whom they might claim for their own. The Pope listened 
gravely to their request, and then, “Go,” said he, “‘ let one of your 
number be blindfolded, take him into the Church of St. John 
Lateran, whose vast nave is circled around with statues of saints ; 
let him then boldly advance and lay hands on one of the statues, 
and whichever he shall hold that one shall ever after be your 
patron.” 

Joyfully then did the men of law hasten to obey the Pontiff ; 
a representative .was chosen, blindfolded, and sent forth upon his 
momentous errand down the grand, marble-paved nave of that 
majestic Basilica which bears the proud title of “ Mother and 
Mistress of all Churches,” taking precedence even of St. Peter’s. 
Some half way down, impatient for the result, he turned, clasped 
the nearest figure, and tore off the blinding bandage from his 
eyes, only to find, to his horror, that he had halted before &/. 
Michael and the Devil, and clasping the latter to him, held, as his 
choice, the arch-enemy of mankind. From thenceforth it is said 
that the devil is the patron of lawyers. 

Rome in those days was a long way from Brittany, else they 
would have learned for their comfort that that remote district 
boasted the proud distinction of possessing a true lawyer-saint to 
redeem that most unsaintlike of professions from its opprobrious 
state of unblest ignominy in St Yves, parish priest and ecclesias- 
tical lawyer, co-patron of Brittany with St. Anne, and who was 
born, lived, died, and was buried within its limits; one to whom 
the most jealous patriot could not refuse the title of “un vrai 
breton ” by name, family and inheritance. He has managed to 
win for himself an almost unparalleled popularity in his native 
province, and even beyond it, and it is a curious fact that thousands 
though the numbers be of “ beatified’ and “ canonised”’ saints 
among all possible orders in religion or states of life, the Breton, 
St. Yves, besides being the only lawyer, is also the only secular 
parish priest who has yet been raised to the altars of the Church. 

He was born on the 17th of October, 1253, and was the son— 
apparently the only one—of a gentleman and landed proprietor, as 
we should now term it, whose property lay close to Tréguier, in 
Lower Brittany. His parents sent him to Paris to study law at a 
somewhat early age, and, after successfully going through a course 


548 The Irish Monthly. 


of study, he returned to Rennes, then, as now, one of the chief 
centres of legal learning in France, and became a sort of ecclesiastical 
lawyer there, attached to the court of the archdeacon of that place, 
& personage then of far more importance than are such dignitaries 
now. 

For several years he was occupied in travelling about from place 
to place, reforming abuses, pleading in trials, investigating and 
redressing wrongs under the direction of his superior and employer, 
the Bishop of Tréguier, and purging the diocese of various open 
and crying scandals. His private life was as holy as his exterior 
one was renowned, and when, after some years, the Bishop presented. 
him with a living in recognition of his services to the see, Yves, 
perhaps somewhat to the surprise of his superiors, immediately 
solicited and obtained ordination, and proceeded to lead the life of 
an obscure curé de campagne, giving himself up entirely to the 
service of the poor and sick, and devoting his splendid eloquence 
to the preaching of the word of God. Like a true lawyer, he is 
said to have been literally untiring in speech, and, when his bishop 
would take him in his train on some of the episcopal visitations, Yves 
felt the passion of pleading so strong within him that he would turn 
aside by the way to preach to any little groups of hearers he 
encountered, and seemed as though he could not repress the torrent 
of burning words which rose to his lips whenever he chanced to 
encounter an impromptu audience. Four or five sermons a day 
would he pour forth, sometimes becoming so exhausted with speech 
and fasting that he had to be carried out of the pulpit. He is 
described as a very noble-looking man, tall and stately, with an air 
of birth and distinction about him which, joined to his flashing 
eye and eloquent tongue, could not fail to impress any audience. 
One of his brother-priests has left on record the following descrip- 
tion of St. Yves’ daily life as parish priest :—‘‘ Early every morning 
he said Mass in his chapel, and then read aloud a long portion of 
the Holy Scriptures; then he distributed alms to the-poor who 
happened to be present, and preached a sermon which lasted till 
midday. He then dined, sharing his dinner with those poor 
persons who had been in the chapel, and afterwards retired into 
his chamber and gave himself to prayer and meditation until the 
evening, when, joining the other priests who lived with him, they 
said their office together, and conversed or discussed questions on 
religious subjects till nightfall.” The only variations in this 


St. Yves of Brittany. 549 


simple manner of life were the works of charity in which he 
delighted, and foremost among which were his long visits to the 
ever well populated hospital of the town, where he would spend 
hours in nursing the sick, preparing the dying for their last hour, 
wrapping them, when dead, in their winding sheet, and often 
actually carrying them himself to the grave, particularly in such 
instances as where, from the peculiar loathsomeness of the 
disease—black small-pox, or plague, or other fearfully contagious 
malady—those whose duty it was to perform these last offices 
shrank from doing so. 

We find, too, many instances of the true saintlike love of 
poverty and self-abnegation so common in the lives of all holy men ; 
how, on one occasion, he actually stripped himself of all his clothes 
to bestow them on some poor man, and was forced to wrap 
himself in a counterpane until he could procure others; and how, 
though as a “landed proprietor,” with presumably inalienable 
property of house and land, his possessions were not always so 
easily disposed of as his raiment, he generally managed to dis- 
embarrass himself even of the less disposable parts of his property. 
As, for instance, his neighbours would tell how one harvest time, 
when all were threshing and garnering their corn, St. Yves, who . 
owned rich fields and well stocked granaries like the rest, but, 
unlike them, regarded all as but the inheritance of his beloved poor, 
was so impatient to give it away, that he began to distribute it even 
in the sheaf, and his barns and granaries were consquently but little 
used. A neighbouring proprietor remarked to him that “it was a 
bad practice to give away freshly cut corn, as, by keeping it awhile, 
it would become more valuable.” 

“ But who knows whether I shall be alive then?” asked the 
saint ; and when at the end of a year, this same neighbour boasted 
of how he had gained one-fifth on the corn which he had stored, 
“And J,” answered Yves, “have gained far more on the corn 
which J have laid up and garnered.” 

Like St. Thomas of Canterbury, St. Yves was at one time 
called upon to defend the rights of the Church against a too 
rapacious sovereign ; for the king of France having laid claim to 
certain tithes of the ecclesiastical revenues, Yves encouraged his 
brethren in a bold resistance to these wrongful claims, and under- 
took the guardianship of the disputed property, spending his nights 
at one time in the cathedral, so as to protect its treasures effectually, 


550 The Irish Monthly. 


and opposing the crown officers who had been sent to seize them 
so valiantly that they found their utmost efforts completely foiled. 
It is told that one day he met an official leading off a valuable 
horse belonging to the bishops as payment of the disputed tithes, 
no one daring to say him nay; but Yves, calmly taking the horse 
by the bridle, put aside the astounded sergent, and led it back to 
the stable, while its conductor indignantly muttered, “ You rogue, 
you are placing us in danger of losing ‘everything we have, while 
you care not because you have nothing to lose.” 

“You may talk as much as you please,” said Yves, leading 
away his prize triumphantly. ‘ Ag long as God preserves my life, 
I shall use it to defend the Church and her liberties.” 

And it was probably deemed unwise to prolong a contest with 
one so venerated as was our saint, for we hear of no more spoliations 

' of that nature. 

Many stories are told of the miracles which he wrought during 
his lifetime; how he healed the sick, and cast out devils like the 
apostles of old; how food multiplied beneath his hand, and rivers 
parted before his feet. Like St. Gregory and other saints, he 
sometimes “ entertained angels unawares.”’ One day, after he had 
made his usual distribution of bread to the poor, a particularly 
loathsome beggar presented himself, too late to receive alms with 
the others; whereupon Yves took him to his own table, and made 
him eat from the same plate with him. When the man had eaten 
a little, he rose from the table and went towards the door; then 
turning to his host, “ Farewell,” he said, speaking, as is specially 
noted by the chronicler, not French, but the Breton tongue, “ may 
the Lord be with you,” and, as he spoke, he grew radiant in 
wondrous beauty, so white and shining that the whole house was 
filled with his light, and as he disappeared, St. Yves burst into 
tears, exclaiming : “ Now I know that the messenger of the Lord 
has been among us.” , 

But perhaps the quaintest of the popular legends surrounding - 
his name, and undoubtedly the most uncommon, are those which 
tell of his lawyer-life—that passion for justice which has made his 
name the synonym of all that is grand and gracious, sagacious and 
chivalrous ; the successful defence of the poor against the rich, of 
the weak against the strong, of right against might, in public and 
private alike. One of these, as illustrative of the manners of the 
times, may:-here be given. It runs as follows :-— 








St. Yves of Brittany. 551 


On a certain day St. Yves came to Tours on some legal 
business, and went to lodge at a hostelry where he had been 
accustomed to put up, and was therefore acquainted with the 
hostess. On his arrival he found the good woman in a ternble 
state of distress, and asked her what ailed her. 

é Oh, sir,” she said, “I am a ruined woman. I have been 
summoned before the judge by a wicked man, and to-morrow I 
shall be summoned to pay 1200 gold écus, which I cannot do 
without selling all my possessions.” 

The saint spoke some words of comfort, and desired her to tell 
him the particulars of the affair, which she did, saying that about 
two months before, there came to her hotel two well-dressed men, 
representing themselves as merchants. On their arrival they placed 
in her charge an iron coffer duly locked and very heavy, and 
charged her not to deliver it up to either one of them in the 
absence of the other. ‘This she promised, and they left the box in 
her keeping. After five or six days, as she was standing at the 
hotel door, these two “ merchants,” with some other men, passed 
along the road, and called out to her as they passed that she must 
prepare them some supper. 

When they had passed, one of the two turned back and said: 
“Good hostess, give me our box, for we have to make a payment 
from it to those merchants whom you see with us. 

So she fetched the box and gave it to him, and he disappeared. 

Bye-and-bye the other man came back and asked if she had 
seen his companion. 

é No,” said she, “I have not seen him since I gave him the 
box.” 

é You have given him the box?” exclaimed the man. “Then 
I am ruined!’’ And he proceeded to upbraid her in the strongest 
terms, saying that she had been forbidden to give up the box to 
either.one of them alone. "Whereupon he summoned her to court, 
and related, on oath, what had occurred, saying that the box 
contained 1200 pieces of gold, besides valuable papers; “ and 
to-morrow, she concluded, “judgment will be given, and I shall be 
condemned.” 

St. Yves, after interviewing her avocat, and finding that 
everything was as the poor woman had stated, accompanied her 
to the court next day, and asked leave to take up her case. 
Permission being given, “ My lord, the judge,” said he, “I have 


552 The Irish Monthly. 


to bring to your notice a fresh piece of evidence which has trans- 
pired since yesterday, and which must materially affect your 
judgment. It is that, thanks be to God! the box in question 
has been found, and shall be shown as evidence in due time by the 
defendant.” 

On this the counsel for the prosecution demanded that the box 
should be brought into court at once, or judgment be given against 
the landlady. 

“My lord,” replied the undaunted Yves, “the express injunction 
of the prosecutor and his companion on giving the box to their 
landlady was that it should not be given up to either one of them 
save in the presence of both ; let, therefore, the prosecutor summon 
his companion, and in their joint presence she will produce the- 
box.” 

The judge agreed that this demand was just, and, at his 
decision, the soi-disant merchant turned pale and became evidently 
much disconcerted, so that all eyes were turned on him, and 
suspicion grew strong. He was imprisoned while awaiting further 
evidence, and it finally transpired that the famous box had been 
filled, not with gold pieces, but with iron nails, and the whole 
affair a concerted plot for extorting money from the poor woman. 
The pretended merchant confessed his guilt and was executed. 

It was this marvellous combination of sagacity and benevolence.. 
the lawyer’s wit joined to a saints’ all-embracing charity, which has 
won for Yves of Brittany such passionate and enduring devotion 
that he is looked upon by the descendants of those whom he 
succoured in their need as something more than half divine—a 
wonder-worker, like the Christophers and Thaumaturgi of old. 
In the popular mind he grew to be almost ubiquitous; wherever 
the poor were slighted, the feeble wronged, there stood Yves at their 
side, ready, not with the sword of St. George or the spear of St. 
Michael, but with the one magic word—justice! And human 
malice failed, and plotters owned themselves outwitted, when Yves 
de Kermartin entered the lists against their most skilful oom- 
binations. 

One darker side indeed there is to this grand spirit of faith which 
has lightened so many hearts, and lifted so many burdens during the 
six centuries which have elapsed since Yves the lawyer passed 
from town to town of his native Brittany, bringing justice and: 
peace to all. The Breton people are, as we have said, essentially 








St. Yoes of Brittany. 553 


a, conservative race ; more, they are slow, stolid, difficult to teach or 
to convince. But when once an idea, a thought, a faith has 
penetrated the heavy but tenacious soil of their understanding, it 
remains there irradicably fixed for good or evil. What they have 
been taught in childhood, that they do; what their fathers wor- 
shipped, to that they cling. It is, in some respects, a safeguard 
and a precious instinct; only, as one’s enemies are keen to remind 
us, popular faith 7s apt to degenerate into superstition; and it 
seems that the devotion to St. Yves is not exempt from this defect. 
Among the untutored minds of the lower classes there has sprung 
up, and still lurks in spite of the “ cultivation” of the nineteenth 
century, a curious perversion of true devotion. The peasants of 
Brittany believe in fwo St. Yves! The one is St. Yves de 
Kermartin, the real, historical saint, venerated with what their 
_ French brethren wouldterm “un respectueux dévouement”’; the 
other is Sf. Yres de Verité. 

St. Yves de Verité is a kind of fetish, a creation of superstition 
and fear—a name to be whispered with shuddering awe. The 
plaintiff of olden days, believing in the justice of his cause, would 
boldly invoke St. Yves to be his protector, and obtain for him a 
favourable verdict. But the peasant of modern times, gleaning 
from the past faint echoes of some of those magnificent appeals to . 
Supreme Justice which the saints might impetrate, now calls upon 
St. Yves de Verité for vengeance rather than justice. If any 
wrong is done him, if the author of some theft cannot be dis- 
covered, or trespasser tracked and punished, the aggrieved peasant 
calls out a solemn summons to his adversary to appear before St. 
Yves de Verité; and it is believed that whoever is in the wrong 
will die within the year by the hand of the Saint of Brittany. 

Strange attribute, that of a dark and gloomy vengeance, to be 
given to one who lived so gracious a life, who died so gentle a 
death, that, as the old story gives it, his first intimation of his 
approaching end came from his own lips to his people, when 
“conversing one day with a pious member of his flock, the Dame 
de Keranvais, he told her that he believed the end of his earthly 
career to be at hand.” 

She was struck with consternation at his announcement, and 
began to beg him not to ask for, not even to wish for, what would 
be to his people such an irreparable loss. But he answered her 
quaintly and solemnly, “ Madame, will you not let me think of my 

Vou xv. No. 208. 89 


f 


554 The Irish Monthly. 


own interest as well as yours? You would feel glad, would you 
not, if you had overcome an enemy? I feel the same gladness at 
the approach of death, since I know that my enemy is at last 
conquered by God’s grace.” And so it came to pass that after 
this he grew weaker and weaker for some days without any 
apparent cause, till all could see that his end was at hand. On the 
eve of the Ascension, though too weak to dress himself, he said his 
last Mass and heard his last confession ; then, completely exhausted, 
he sank on his rude bed to rise no more. His brethren entreated 
him to let them put a little straw under him, and rest his head on 
a pillow, but he refused, saying that he was not worthy of such 
indulgence, and that he was more at ease, as he was accustomed to 
lie, with only a stone to support his head. Then he began to 
speak to those about him of spiritual things, refusing to call in any 
- doctor, and saying he desired no physician save Jesus Christ; and 
so he lay for three days, his life ebbing slowly away, until feeling 
himself near the end, he asked for and received the Sacraments. 
He joined fervently in the prayers said over him, and then 
remained rapt in contemplation throughout the remaining hours, 
until, on the Sunday after Ascension Day, May 19, 1303, he fell 
asleep without a struggle. 

How the thoughts and love of his people followed him, and 
how miracles were wrought at his tomb, it needs not here to 
enlarge upon. This very year, in the month of September, a 
splendid shrine was unveiled over his tomb in the Cathedral of 
Tréguier, where his body lies; and even apart from any hagio- 
logical interest, the throngs of Breton worshippers who there 
assembled presented very many features of unusual and varied 
interest. We wonder whether any Breton mother there related 
to her children the odd little story to be found among their 
numerous popular anecdotes, of “ How St. Yves entered Heaven.” 
“ Among the crowd of souls who were entering the gates of 
Paradise, Yves slipped in without being noticed. St. Peter, the 
doorkeeper, finding this out, wished to eject him, but St. Yves 
declared, lawyer-wise, that having once obtained possession, he 
could only be turned out by a huissier.* St. Peter recognised the 
Justice of this, and immediately went all over Paradise hunting 
for a huissier; but in vain, for no huissier has ever entered Heaven. 
So Yves remained there ! 


* A huissier is 2 ““ Sheriff’s officer ” or “ Bailiff.” 











A Caoine. 555 


According to another account, Yves presented himself at St. 
Peter’s gate in company with a number of nuns. “ Who are 
you?” said St. Peter to one of these. “ A religious,” she replied. 
“ Oh, go to Purgatory for a while, we have nuns enough here ! ?” 
Then to Yves, “And who are you?” “Avocat.” “Ah, we 
have none of those here, so come in!” 


Turopora LANE TKELING. 


A CAOINE. 


ib was hard to hearken the tale they told, 
That, Boyle O'Reilly was dead and cold, 

In his golden prime, in his country’s need 

Of each noble word and each worthy deed. 


We loved him truly and well and long, 
Who only knew him by word and song ; 
But around the feet of one motherland 
Brethren quickly see and soon understand. 


‘The gallant life was a wave of light, 

Setting fair his race in the wide world’s sight. 
Sore stricken now in her loss and pain, 

W hen will Ireland look upon his like again ? 


Well may she mourn him in whose heart her love 
Burned pure and warm as God's sun above. 

Well may she moan for him who could not rest, 
E'en in death, his head upon her hallowed breast. 


God’s peace be with him where he sleeps to-day 
"Neath the friendly flag of free America ; 

But with us is sorrow, and woe, and dread, 

For John Boyle O’Reilly now lies cold and dead. 


Rosx KavaNaGH. | 


156 The Iriwh Monthly. 


PARADISE LOST. 


faz at my feet the Jake of Como lies ; 
I hear its murmurous ripples ebb and flow. 
‘ Around me, ranging proudly row on row, 

The dreamy, purple-crested mountains rise. 

All bright before me when I lift my eyes 
Stands quaint Varenna in the sun a-glow ; 
And everywhere the crowding roses blow 

In this most perfect place, this paradise. 


And yet my wayward thoughts will not be bound, 
Nor rest at all in this enchanted ground ; 
They wander forth far over land and sea, 
And through the London streets in chill and gloom 
They thread their way to some one, wanting whom 
Even Paradise is Paradise Lost for me. 


Menaggio, May, 1890, Frances WYNNE. 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. We have before us two pages of criticisms, a sentence or two 
from each, passed on Judge O’Hagan’s masterly translation of The 
Song of Roland by the various organs of literary opinion, Zhe Edinburgh 
Review, Saturday Review, Atheneum, Spectator, Academy, and all the 
rest. All combine to praise the consummate skill displayed in this 
version. We refer to it for the purpose of claiming the same literary 
skill for a much less dignified production of the same pen, namely, 
“The Children’s Ballad Rosary ” (London: 18 West Square, 8.E.) 
Judge O’Hagan has perfectly fulfilled his intention, which was, as he 
tells us, “ to give the divine facts commemorated in the Rosary in a 
form which may aid in imprinting them on the minds of the young at 
a time of life when the memory is strong, and more tenacious of verse 
than of prose.” He devotes a dozen four-lined stanzas to each of the 
fifteen mysteries, describing all the circumstances almost in the words 
' of the Gospel, and yet in true ballad form. This penny book, which 
even in its daintiest binding costs only fourpence, will help many, 
both young and old, to practise with more profit and pleasure this 
most solid and scriptural devotion of the Rosary. 











Notes on New Books. 557 


2. Messrs. Charles Eason and Son, of Dublin, have brought out 
with great taste and skill a charming volume, ‘‘A Summer Holiday 
in Europe,” by Mary Elizabeth Blake, of Boston. Mrs. Blake's 
literary reputation stands very high in the city which is now in 
mourning for John Boyle O’Reilly. The best of her prose writing 
has been given to sketches of travel in Mexico. In the present 
volume, out of twenty-five chapters, the three first are devoted to 
Ireland, and the two last to London. The intermediate twenty 
chapters take us through France and Switzerland, Paris herself occupy- 
ing ten delightful chapters, which will have much novelty and freshness 
even for those who have themselves ascended the Eiffel Tower. Mrs. 
Blake does not aim at the painfully picturesque manner of some 
travellers. Her style is as lively as possible, but always pure and 
correct. No pleasanter book of travel has appeared for many a day. 

3. The same Publishers have issued a new “ Life of Father 
Mathew,” anticipating the celebration of hiscentenary. The biography 
compiled by Mr. John Francis Maguire has been abridged and 
re-edited by Miss Rosa Mulholland. A youthful student of style 
might learn many useful lessons by comparing the original with Miss 
Mulholland’s condensation of it. Her work will help to make Father 
Mathew’s career known to many who could not consult the books 
already published on the subject. 

4. “The American Home Confectionery Book ” (London: Burns 
and Oates) contains receipts for all kinds of cakes, sweetmeats, 
preserves, pastry, puddings and pies, as prepared in both Americas 
and the Indies. A certain Miss F. has adapted these mysterious 
formularies for the use of American and English housekeepers. The 
book furnishes exactly three hundred of these enticing recipes. 
Though printed in Paris, we notice no misprints, but rum (which 
figures too prominently) is always spelled rhum. 

5. ‘‘Sayings of Cardinal Newman ” (London: Burns and Oates) 
is a somewhat misleading title for an extremely interesting collection 
of the less formal and more personal addresses of him whom one 
enthusiastic admirer used to call many years ago “‘the divine John 
Henry.” Except in a few instances, these are only fragments, 
‘‘crumbs from the Master’s table,” but many of them are very 
characteristic, and therefore very precious. Perhaps fuller notes of 
some of them may be found among the Cardinal’s papers, such as the 
first ‘‘on the characteristics of poetry.” It is very well for us to 
have in this eminently readable form Cardinal Newman's exquisite 
answers to addresses, for in these cases we have the spstsstma verba of 
a consummate master of words. The headings used in the table of 
contents are very apt and appetising; but why are not the pages 


558 The Irish Monthly. 


specified where each item may be found? The frontispiece is a very 
pathetic portrait of the beloved old man, taken a fow weeks before his 
death by Father Anthony Pollen. 


6. We venture to draw special attention to a series of penny 
sketches of “ The Children of Holy Scripture’ (Glasgow: H. Margey) 
by revealing at once the interesting fact that ‘‘C. E;” on the title- 
page are the initials of the Most Rev. Charles Eyre, Archbishop of 
Glasgow. The highest priced of eight other publications of His Grace 
is a biblical drama, “Joseph and his Brothers,” which costs sixpence 
—twice as dear as “The Mother of Mercy: a Mystery Play.” Two 
others are ‘‘Child’s Life,” and “Our Children, their privileges and 
teachings.” The Scottish Archbishop seems to have a special share 
of the spirit of Him who said: ‘‘ Suffer the little ones to come to Me.” 
The first four numbers of his new series are “Ismael, or God's care of 
children,” ‘‘ Isaac, or the Child of Promise,” “ Joseph, or under God’s 
special providence,” and “ Benjamin, or the beauty of family 
affection.” When Dr. Johnson said it was easy to write fables about 
talking animals, Goldsmith very properly retorted that, if the Doctor 
tried his hand at it, he would make the little fishes talk like whales. 
Perhaps it was a fear of this kind that has made our Archbishop 
shrink from attempting to tell these stories about children to children 
themselves in the language that children understand. He does not 
speak to children directly, but through their parents and teachers. 
But even children may prefer this calm, sober style, for they dislike 
being talked down to. Dr. Eyre gives all the circumstances about 
each of his young heroes very fully and clearly, and deduces from 
each very useful lessons for the young. In his first page we learn 
that of these Children of the Bible there are nineteen in the Old 
Testament, and about twelve in the New. But, probably, there is not 
enough told about many of these childhoods to furnish matter for 
thirty separate penny booklets. 


7. The Illustrated Catholic Misstons for September (Donovan: 19 
Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London) has a particularly interest- 
ing answer to the question, ‘‘Who were the first Christian Missioners 
in America ?” It seems that recent researches of eminent Ameri- 
canists, especially M. Beauvois in his work, “La Légende de 8. 
Columba chez les Mexicains du Moyen Age,” tend to show that the 
good tidings were carried even as far as Mexico in the ninth century 
by Irish or, at least, Keltic monks, disciples of St. Columba, of whom 
they find numerous traces in Mexican tradition. The Irish race have 
certainly done much for the Faith in the New World in the nineteenth 
century. What if they began that work in the ninth? 


Notes on New Books. 559 


8. Another Magazine—Zhe Lamp—seems to have made a new 
departure. Its cover has assumed a brighter hue; and within there 
is much excellent matter. The most interesting item is, of course, the 
reminiscences of Cardinal Newman by an old Edgbaston boy. This 
is one of the very best of the countless tributes paid to this most 
venerable and most amiable memory. We cannot pretend to have 
read all the stories, but we have read ‘“‘Odysseus the Younger,” by 
Hilaire Belloc, which, slight as it is, and simple and even hackneyed 
as are the incidents of the tale, appears to us to be a literary 
achievement of remarkable merit, making us see very vividly what 
the writer describes, and making us feel what he felt in telling the 
little story. The style has a peculiar charm. 

9. The Rev. Arthur Devine is an Irish disciple of St. Paul of the 
Cross. A Passionist could choose no more appropriate subject than 
the “History of the Passion” (London: Burns and Oates). The 
notes and comments added to the gospel narrative are manifestly the 
fruit of long and earnest meditation and study. Space is not taken 
up with rhetorical reflections, but solid matter is furnished which 
-must suggest many reflections. Father Devine has selected with very 
great industry the opinions of the best authorities on each incident of 
the Passion, and the whole is woven together in a clear and correct 
style which suits the solemn theme. The priest who turns over the 
three hundred pages of this volume at a bookseller’s counter will be 
very likely to add it to his working library. The faithful also may 
consult it with profit and edification. 

10. A second edition has appeared of “ Principles of Anthropology 
and Biology,” by the Rev. Thomas Hughes, 8.J. (New York, 
Cincinnati, and Chicago: Benziger). A Catholic Teacher, “ E. M.,”’ 
has compiled, with a special view to the Intermediate Examinations, 
“ The Catholic Child’s History of England.” It is comprised within 
three hundred pages of rather large type, well bound, for two 
shillings. ‘‘The Catholic Church and Socialism,” by Conde Pallen 
(Herder: St. Louis), is a solution of the social problem on Christian 
principles. 


560 


a 


The Irish Monthly. 


THE MONTH’S MIND AT EDGBASTON. 


PNGLAND. thy mighty heart hath pulses strong 
As death, what time the battle-crimsoned chief 
Is borne to glory’ 8 grave; nor less thy grief 

Though Newman sleeps not ’mongst the mighty throu -. 

Life is a combat: his was drear and long 
’Gainst princedoms dark; not every gleaner’s sheaf 
Shows in the gloaming golden grain and leaf; 

Not riftless every victor’s evensong. 

O timely champion, sent at sorest need 
Of battle-brunt, peace comes of battle won : 

And he who trod the wine- press in sheer night 
Of the world’s travail, toward the risen sun 
That sinks no more, hath led thy footsteps right 
Homeward. To God the praise, to thee fuli meed. 


‘Lo! on the everlasting hills afar 


Stands Christ in glory gleaming: ’twere most meet 
To kiss the rubies of His hands and feet ; 
While She whose emblem is the morning star 
Beams from the radiance, where the virgins are 
In raiment white, the bidden guest to greet : 
Heart unto heart* throbs utterance strange and sweet, 
Nor note of dissonance may their music mar. 
The lordly mansions of eternal life 
Enthrone their monarchs: Athanasius’ peers 
Acclaim a compeer to the red-robed choir: . 
Dear Father Philip leads the choral strife 
Of saints with seraphim: nor mute the seers 
Who spake in elder time with tongues of fire. 


Though England erstwhile stood in stern array 
Of scorn, mistrust, and bias—these to thee 
Were but as chafings of the sullen sea, 
When skies are clear, to mariners in bay ; 
The “ kindly light,” descried through fierce assay 
Of stressful storm, revealed the sheltering lee. 
Thou hast kept the Faith—sped through the night-gates free 
From out these shadows unto perfect day. 
O witness that God liveth to this hour! 
O coheir with the quickened just on high! 
In sight of the unwise they seem to die, 
Whose end is peace. Crown, Lord, with budding flower 
And clustering fruit the vine of Christ, the King, 
In glad-voiced summer after second spring. 


September 11, 1890. Joun D. CoLcLouGH. 


* Cor ad cor logustvs was the characteristic motto chosen by Cardinal Newman. 


NOVEMBER, 18g0. 





JOHN PIUS LEAHY, O.-P., 


Bisoor or Drowore. 


i is only two or three months since this Magazine brought at 

last to an end its tribute to Dr. Michael Blake, Bishop of 
Dromore, a full quarter of a century after his death. We must be 
more prompt in offering our loving homage to the memory of his 
immediate successor, for he, too, is now a memory. Dr. Leahy 
died at Violet Hill, Newry, at three o’clock in the afternoon of 
Saturday, the sixth of September, 1890, in the eighty-eighth year 
of his age. 

The following dates and facts in his life, up to the time of his 
episcopal appointment, are given—and nothing more—in a 
memorandum found among the Bishop’s papers, in his own hand- 

“ Born 25th July, 1802, in the city of Cork. Parents, Daniel 
Leahy and Jane O'Driscoll. Schools: a classical school in Cork, 
boarding school at Bloomfield, near Dublin. Received into the 
Order of St. Dominick on the 8th of September, 1817. Professed, 
9th September, 1818, in Lisbon. Studied philosophy and theology 
in the College of Corpo Santo, Lisbon. Ordained priest on the 6th 
of August, 1826. Sent by the General of the Order to act as 
Rector of the College of Corpo Santo. Arrived there 28rd 
December, 1829. Left May, 1836. Appointed Prior of the 
Convent of Cork, 1839. Reappointed ”—— 

The date of the last event is not filled in, and the “ 39 ” of the 
preceding date is stroked out. Another hand adds: “ Elected 
Provincial, 15th July, 1848.”’ 

A. few circumstances may be added to this summary of Dr. 


Von. xvi. No. 209. 90 


a 


562 ‘The Irish Monthly 


Leahy’s Dominican life. He was another example of the fact 
that delicate people are often long-lived, perhaps somewhat in the 
same way that in shipwrecks those who cannot swim have often the 
best chance of being rescued in the end, their very helplessness 
hindering them from rash attempts. He was of a very delicate 
coustitution from the first. Two of his schoolmates in Cork were 
Dr. Delaney, afterwards the bishop of their native city, and Father 
Bartholomew Russell, his brother Dominican, who was a year 
older, and died a few months before him. 

His second school, Bloomfield College, was at the seaside, near 
Merrion, and had recently been opened by Father Vincent 
Harold, a Dominican who had just returned from the United 
States, where he had considerable reputation as a preacher. Here 
John Leahy had among his classfellows Richard Montesquien 
Bellew, a prominent public man in Ireland a generation before his 
death; and also the Rev. Dr. James Gartlan, of Dundalk, Rector 
of Salamanca, and Vice-Rector of the Catholic University of 
Treland under Dr. Newman. Bloomfield College was soon given 
up, but not till the delicate young lad from Cork was ready to 
present himself for admission into the Order of St. Dominick. He 
was sent to make his noviceship in Lisbon, accompanying Dr. 
Harold and Father John Ryan, who is described as “a famous 
preacher ’’—how fleeting is such fame! Here, removed from all 
distractions, the young Dominican devoted himself with great 
earnestness and with great success to the study of philosophy and 
theology, which he was also set to teach to others at the earliest 
possible age. Twenty years of such study and such teaching made 
him the solidly learned priest whose profound humility could not 
save him from being raised to the episcopal office. 

This trial befell him a few years after being recalled to work in 
his native land and his native city. There had been one break in 
his Lisbon life. He had come home about the year that another 
Cork man, the poet Callanan, went to Lisbon to die. Of this visit 
to Ireland a very interesting relic has been placed in my hands. 
Though Father Leahy was but twenty-seven years of age at the 
epoch of Catholic Emancipation, he was one of three chosen to 
represent the Regular Clergy of Ireland in a difficult emergency ; 
and this also shows the high opinion of his judgment and ability 
already entertained by those who knew him best. His associates 
were an Augustinian, Father O’Connor, afterwards Bishop of 


John Pius Leahy, O.P. 563 


Saldes,* and another Augustinian, Father Rice, a relative, we have 
heard, of the founder of the Irish Christian Brothers. Two faded 
and dishevelled leaves, which manifestly date back to unemanci- 
pated Ireland, contain the following notes of the embassy jotted 
down at the time by Father Leahy — 


Thursday, April 2nd,} waited on Mr. Peel, agreeably to hia note, 
at two o’clock. Mr. O’Connor, having introduced himself, apologised 
for the liberty we had taken in addressing him from Birmingham, 
thanked him for the ready manner in which he had granted us the 
honour of an interview, told him that we were sent over by the 
Regular Clergy of Ireland to thank him for the very great benefits he | 
was conferring on it, and to present ourselves to the government in 
order to satisfy them in any manner they might deem advisable that 
there was nothing either in our constitution or our conduct which 
could call for our destruction. 

Well, but (said Mr. Peel) you perceive I have cautiously abstained 
from impeaching your loyalty. Indeed, I had no information which 
could warrant me in doing so. I even resisted successfully several 
amendments which would have made the clause oppressive. I 
understood that it was intended to move an amendment ordering in 
three or five years all the Regulars to quit the kingdom; but I 
intimated that I would oppose this with all the force of the Govern- 
ment; and, when Sir R. Vyvyan moved that in three months from the 
date of this, education should be taken away from you, I successfully 
resisted the amendment, not wishing that you should suffer any 
personal inconvenience or that vested rights should be disturbed, 

Mr. O’Connor replied that, when several would drop off, we should 
become a burthen to the people, being precluded from receiving any 
new members, and consequently from having the assistance of more 
youthful associates. 

Mr. Peel remarked that he thought our congregations would 


* Dean O'Brien, of Limerick, preached one of his most eloquent sermons at the 
funeral of this holy and amiable prelate some twenty vears ago. His name is 
recorded here, partly in memory of the Feast of the Seven Dolours, 1864, when he 
ordained three priesta in the old chapel of John’s Lane, Dublin, since replaced by 
the splendid Church of the Augustinian Fathers. One of these, a young 
Vinoentian, the Kev. Thothas Corcoran, celebrated Maas only once, and died within 
the first month of his priesthood. The two others were the Very Rev. Abraham 
Oanon Plunkett, P.P., V.G., Blackrock, Co. Dublin, and the present writer. 

t The year is not mentioned, but an old calendar tells me that Easter Sunday in 
1829 fell on the 19th of April. Therefore in this year, and in this year only, the 
2nd of April was Thursday. 


564 The Irish Monthly. 


become larger. Mr. Rice said that this would be perfectly: correct, if 
we were able to attend to them—which we could not do when 
labouring under the infirmities of advanced years. 

Mr. O'Connor then entered on an explanation of our Institutes, 
said that we had disclaimed by our oath of allegiance any foreign 
authority in temporals, and that, as to an authority in spirituals, we 
were less under the foreign jurisdiction than secular priests, for this 
reason: all jurisdiction in the Catholic Church is derived from the 
Pope—for the secular priests through the Propaganda, for the 
Regulars through what were called their Generals. But the difference 
was that the Bishops could exercise no jurisdiction until their 
confirmation, whereas our Superiors, after being elected by what were 
called our Chapters, immediately entered on jurisdiction, the con- 
firmation of the General being a mere formality, which could not be 
refused except for a canonical fault. 

Mr. Peel asked whether all our jurisdiction was not derived from 
the Bishops. 

Mr. O'Connor said that all jurisdiction over the people and all 
right to administer sacraments was certainly derived from them. 

Mr. Peel asked was not jurisdiction refused the regulars by some 
of the Bishops? “No.” ‘Some jealousies?” ‘ Not of any moment.” 
“ Were there not some lately in Galway?” 

Mr. O’Connor remarked that fhese were about some cemeteries. 
And Mr. Leahy added that, notwithstanding this, the secular priests 
and the Bishop of Galway had come forward to petition in our favour. 
Mr. O'Connor remarked that the bishops and laity would have come 
forward in stronger terms in our defence, but that gratitude for the 
Relief Bill hindered them from adopting any course which might 
embarrass the government. ‘‘ Are they well satisfied?” asked Mr. 
Peel. ‘‘ Indeed (said Mr. O'Connor), the very prospect of relief has 
produced wonderful effects, it has acted like a spell. Their gratitude 
to you and the Duke of Wellington is extreme.” ‘It is, sir (said 
Mr. Leahy) completely Irish gratitude—it is unbounded.” 

“ Oh, aye,” said Mr. Peel. ‘In giving relief at all, it was better 
to do it generously.” 

Mr. O’Connor then continued his explanation of our institutes. 
He remarked that we had no property, that we were supported by 
voluntary contributions. 

“But (said Mr. Peel) there is some propetty belonging to the 
the different Orders, some property in the funds.” 

é There is (said Mr. O'Connor) some property of that kind held by 


the Nuns.” 
‘And by the Convents, too,” added Mr. Peel, “for so it is 





John Pius Leahy, OP. 565 


represented in accounts sent forward in 1828 to the Lords by the 
Bishops, extremely candid and fair ones—they are appended to the 
Evidence.” 

At least I can say for my own Order (replied Mr. O’Oonnor) that 
we have none. 

You know, said Mr. Peel, that the Jesuits at Stonyhurst, in 
England, have property. I don’t know how they manage to possess 
it—I suppose by secret trusts quite contrary to the policy of the law. 

Mr. O'Connor was entering on an explanation when Mr. Peel 
interrupted him by saying: ‘‘ Mr. Kenny explained to me all about 
Clongowes. A great deal of forbearance and toleratiun was displayed 
towards them, as it was judged odious to harass them.” 

Mr. O'Connor took occasion to say that he hoped the same toleration 
would be extended now to us, and reminded Mr. Peel that hitherto 
our existence was in perfect conformity to the law, having been 
legalised by the Acts of ’91 and ’93, and that it was severe to re-enact 
now a part of the Penal Code. 

“ Why, you see,” said Mr. Peel, “we have been greatly embarrassed, 
and have met with many difficulties.” 

“ We are perfectly aware of that,” answered Mr. O'Connor, “and 
our gratitude is proportionately great. But we hope that, when at a 
future period we petition, we shall have the support of the Govern- 
ment.” 

“Oh, I trust,” said Mr. Peel, ‘‘ that we shall all be good friends ; 
we have been too long separated. I have (said he, holding down his 
head and smiling very significantly) delivered you from the prosecution 
of the neighbouring magistrates, and so regulated the Bill that it 
must be a Government prosecution, a prosecution of responsible 
persons.”’ 

‘‘Indeed, Mr. Peel,” said Mr. O'Connor, ‘‘if we were subject to 
be harassed by every petty magistrate, it would be better for us to 
leave the country at once. [‘I am sure of it,” said Mr. Peel.] But 
you know, sir, if the law be enacted, we must obey it; and then, 
from the natural course of human life, we must die off in nine or ten 
years.” 

He smiled, held down his head, but said nothing. 

Mr. Leahy asked whether the government would be satisfied with 
confining us to the present number of establishments and members, 
not permitting us at any time to have a greater number, for (added 
he) they are so few at present that they could do no harm if they 
wished. | 

Mr. Peel asked who had the power of enlarging the numbers, 
whether the superior here or in Rome. 





066 ' The Irish Monthly. 


Mr. O’Connor answered that it was decidedly the Superior here, 
and instanced himself; remarking, in addition, that being obliged by 
our constitutions to receive no more than each monastery will support, 
and that support depending on the people, we could not make any 
great addition to our numbers. And he took that opportunity of 
remarking that it was as much our wish as it could be that of the 
government not to receive foreigners, for we should be obliged to 
‘support them, whereas, not knowing the language, they could not 
perform those duties of which our support was an equivalent. 

To this Mr. Peel seemed to assent, and Mr. O’Connor further said 
that he might take the liberty of remarking that if our numbers 
would be very much diminished, the people would feel it very sensibly, 

“ But (asked Mr. Peel) are there not many places in Ireland in 
which no Regulars exist ? ” 

Mr. Leahy said that was only true > of the country places, but that 
they were in all the cities and towns; and Mr. Rice enumerated the 
towns in which they were found, adding that they were in all parts of 
Ireland except the North. 

“ And is not Divine Service performed there and the Sacraments 
administered to Catholics equally well as in other parts?” asked Mr. 
Peel. 

Yes, said Mr. Rice, but the number of Catholics there bears no 
proportion to those of the other provinces. 

Mr. Peel asked if the number of Regulars had not greatly 
diminished since 1757, for so it was stated by Dr. Murray. 

Mr. Rice said that such was the fact, owing to the loss of our 
continental establishments during the French Revolution ; but that we 
had recovered them at present. 

Mr. O'Connor entreated Mr. Peel to use his influence that at least 
no more penal enactments might pass the Lords. He promised us all 
that his advice and influence could effect ; and, on our taking leave, 
asked if we did not intend to wait on Lord Wellington to request that 
he would oppose any severer enactment ? 

Mr. O’Connor said that we did, and asked whether we might take 
the liberty of saying that we had called on him (Mr. Peel). 

He immediately said that we might, and desired us to tell Lord 
Wellington that he had recommended us to wait on him. 

In the course of conversation, Mr. Rice also mentioned that we 
were not agitators, that we had cautiously abstained from mixing 
ourselves up with politics—so much so (added Mr. O’Connor) as to 
incur the reproaches of some of our countrymen, some of them saying 
that it was they, not the government, had a right to complain of us. 











John Pius Leahy, OP. 567 


It has seemed right to give this account in full, from Dr. 
Leahy’s torn and faded autograph of ‘sixty years ago, though it is 
slightly out of place and proportion in the present sketch. ‘“ Mr. 
Leahy ” would probably have played a more prominent part in 
the interview if he had not himself been the reporter; but, besides, 
he was evidently junior counsel on the occasion, and we know 
that the big leader does not let Aim say much. The subsequent 
interview with Wellington, as the Bishop told the friend to whom 
we owe the materials for this paper, went over nearly the same 
ground. He was very businesslike, and very polite; and he urged 
chiefly the many difficulties they had to face in forcing through 
Parliament “ this tremendous measure.” - 

After this interlude, Fra Pio returned to his learned Lusitanian 
exile for some seven or eight years more. The year 1840 found 
him Pricr of the Dominicans in Cork, and in due course he was 
re-elected for a second term of office. In 1847 he was appointed 
Provincial of Ireland, still continuing to reside in his native city. 

It was about this time that a very gifted and saintly woman 
put herself under the guidance of the prior of St. Mary’s. The 
sixth volume of our Magazine (1878), contains the fullest account 
that can be given of Ellen Downing, who in collections of Irish 
poetry is known as “ Mary ” of The Nation, and who, as a member 
of the third order of St. Dominick, took the name of Sister Mary 
Alphonsus. Nothing could exceed the reverence and gratitude she 
felt for the holy priest who survived her so long: In one of her 
letters she says: “ The more he does the more he seems anxious to 
do. I think he lives upon fasting, praying, and incessant work- 
ing.” And in another: “Though I grow more grateful to him, 
I have almost ceased to feel the pain of putting him to trouble. 
Only God can repay what I owe to him—may he do so in his own 
time and way!” She tells another correspondent: “ Father 
Leahy preached at early Mass to-day, and it appears to me that, 
as is told of the priest seen in a vision by sweet St. Aloysius, the 
Holy Ghost must have formed every word he uttered, for it was 
on love, and it thrilled like fire. Even from him I dé not 
remember to have ever heard so burning a sermon. It left an 
intense worshipping for everyone as a living image of the living 
God. You could scarcely pass a little child in the street after it 
without wanting to kneel before her guardian angel, and almost 
seeing God above and around you. If I do not become a saint 


568 | The Irish Monthly. 


. with such helps, I do not know where I shall hide myself from 
God.” 

Dr. Leahy’s guidance of this beautiful and suffering soul 
began appropriately on the eve of the Feast of the Seven Dolours 
of the Blessed Virgin, the third Sunday of September, 1848; and 
it continued till her death in the January of 1869, though during 
most of these years, she could only consult him by letter. A very 
interesting account of the relations between these two souls is 
given by one who was devoted to them both, Mother Imelda 
Magee, a native of Lurgan, Prioress of the Sienna Convent, 
Drogheda. There are few more spiritual biographies than her 
sketch of Ellen Downing prefixed to a volume of meditations 
and prayers composed by the latter in honour of St. Catherine of 
Sienna, and other saints. To this holy volume Dr. Leahy, in 
1879, prefixed a delightful preface, giving, in turn, an account of 
Mother Imelda, who had died a saint’s death just after finishing 
her part of the book. He had published, to her great joy, in 1868, 
a collection of Miss Downing’s sacred poems, under the title of 
“ Voices from the Heart.” The following note refers to this 
book :— 

8 York Place, W., 


June 16, 1868. 
My Deak Lorn, 


I beg to thank you for your kind note and the little book, which I will take 
with me to-morrow and read on my journey. It is alwaysa pleasure to find poetry 
written by those who love truth, as for the most part truth and beauty are too far 
asunder in our English Literature. . 

I trust Ireland is reviving in hope. My belief is that a brighter age is coming 

at last. 
Believe me, my dear Lord, 
Your affectionate servant and brother in Christ, 
he Henry E. Mannine. 


As we are speaking of verses for which the subject of our 
sketch was responsible, we may with considerable misgiving venture 
to preserve a poetical tribute paid to him by one of his Cork friends 
more than forty years ago. It will be a curious proof of what was 
thought of him. What bishop was ever before celebrated in so 
elaborate an acrostic? But he was not yet a bishop. 


‘What tunes the heavenly choir above 
To sounds of sweet, seraphic love? 
What guides the planets in their course 
With strict, undeviating force ? 


John Pius Leahy, O.P. 569 


What lifte the soul from dark despair 
And banishee desponding care ? 
What can a nameless grace impart 

And far exceed the power of art? 
What made the heavenly host rebel, 
And hurled them to the depths of hell P 
What's typified by childhood’s hours 
And dwelt in Eden's holiest bowers ? 
What is the tie by which are joined 
Two spirits in one perfect mind P 

And that sweet social charm that blends 
In concord’s bond our mutual friends? 
What gladdened first the new-born earth 
When heaven’s mandate gave it birth ? 
What raises the unlettered mind 

To thoughts sublime, enlarged, refined ? 
What was the boast of ancient Greece— 
Her strength in war, her charm in peace ? 
Where is that place where peaceful rest 
Must ever fill the tranquil breast ? 

And that sweet season of delight 

When hope paints every object bright? 
The initials carefully combined 

Will name a man of master mind, 

The saint, the scholar and the friend : 
May life eternal be his end! 


Few of us, if left to ourselves, would be able to discover that 
the first four questions in this enigmatical acrostic, are answered 
by the words, joy, order, hope and nature, whose initials spell JoHn ; 
the next four are pride, innocence, union, and society, which spell’ 
Pits; and the last five are light, education, art, heaven, and youth, 
which spell Leany. 

When a second and more enlarged edition of Voices from the 
Heart was published after the author’s death, it was enriched with 
a valuable introduction from the pen of the learned Redemptorist, 
Father Bridgett. Her death occurred on the Feast of St. John 
‘Chrysostom, January 27, 1869, on which day, as we have reason 
to remember, her spiritual director, Dr. Leahy, preached the 
dedication sermon in the Jesuit Church of the Sacred Heart, 
Limerick. If the news of her death reached the Bishop while in 
Crescent House, he kept it to himself, perhaps not thinking that we 
should be so deeply interested as one at least would have been in 
the death of “ Mary ” of The Nation. 

We quoted a moment ago her account of another of Dr. 
Leahy’s sermons of a less public character, dwelling on the fervour 


570 The Irish Monthly. 


a 
which thrilled through the deep and measured solemnity of his 
language. On what a solid foundation of theology this unction in 
preaching was based may be conjectured from the fact that the 
secular and regular clergy of Cork combined in insisting that 
Father John Pius Leahy should be appointed to preside over their 
theological conferences, and that Dean Neville, who took part in 
these conferences for a short time as a curate before gaining a 
professor’s chair at Maynooth, spoke to his class with great respect 
of Dr. Leahy’s authority as a theologian. His judgment and 
learning made themselves felt also in the Synod of Thurles in 
1850, which he attended as Provincial of his Order. 

The late Primate, Dr. M‘Gettigan, while he was still Bishop of 
Raphoe, and when the See of Armagh was vacant, had to visit 
Rome with the other bishops. His Raphoe flock, who longed to 
keep him to themselves, were in despair, for they said: “ When 
the Pope sees him, he will make him Primate.” Dr. Leahy’s 
fervent clients in Cork might have fallen into the same despair as 
soon as circumstances forced him to appear among the Irish 
prelates. Such a man was sure to be made bishop on the first 
opportunity. Dromore was the fortunate diocese. The appoint- 
ment of Dr. Leahy has often, even lately, in the printed accounts 
of his career, been attributed to Cardinal Cullen ; but now, for the 
first time, we are able to cite the Cardinal’s positive testimony to 

, the contrary. 

Dr. Leahy preserved carefully the following letter and some 
others relating to this crisis in his life:— - 

Dublin, May 2nd, 1854. 
My Duan Dr. Leany, 


I delayed answering your letter, having been almost continually engaged since 
I received it. Iam not surprised that the thought of being remo m the 
peace of the cloister should prey heavily on your mind, and that your humility 
should shrink from occupying a prominent and public position in the Church. 

However, in such matters perhaps the best way is to leave ourselves to the will 
of God and the wisdom of the Holy See. The Pope, I am sure, before he takes any 
step in your case, will weigh all the circumstances and act with great caution. I 
do not know whether anything has been done as yet, not having had any 
communication from the Propaganda. I suppose they correspond with the Primate 

“in this case, as Dromore belongs to his province. It was not I who proposed your 
name to the Propaganda. I can, therefore, have very little influence in the 
question. Should I, however, be consulted, I will not fail to make known your 
objections. In the meantime I will unite with you in recommending the whole 
business to God ; and I hope that whatever is for the greater glory of His holy 
name will be done, 

Believe me to be, with sincerest esteem, 
Your devoted servant, 
* Pavt CULLEN. 


[ Conclusion next month]. 








TO A SORROWING MOTHER. 


H, comfort thee! ‘‘’Tis but a little while,” 
Perchance he lingers near, 
With radiant brow and tender loving smile 
To soothe thy falling tear. 


He is a child for ever, and for him 
All fears are laid to rest ; 

Ne’er shall sin stain, nor touch of sorrow dim 
The peace of that still breast. 


Ne’er shall he learn that saddest word, “ farewell,” 
For, ere his spirit passed, 

Deep sleep had laid on him a solemn spell 
Which bound him to the last. 


In life he bravely played his little part, 
Though short the path he trod, 
And now the Christ-like child, the pure in heart, 
Rejoiting sees his God. 
Grace Baiss. 


A STRIKING CONTRAST. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE MISER OF KINGSCOURT,’” ‘‘ THE STRANGE ADVENTURES 
OF LITTLE SNOWDEOP,’’ ETC. 





CHAPTER XXIII. 
LADY ASHFIELD CHANGES HER TACTICS. , 
HIS scene with Lord Ashfield tried Dora severely, and the next 
‘morning she was too ill to make the journey to Summerlands. 
Sir Eustace and Sylvia would not go without her, and postponed their 
going until she should be able to accompany them. 

But after two days of complete rest she declared herself eager to 
depart, and, to the great delight of her friends, seemed brighter and 
more interested in everything than she had been since the beginning 
of her illness. 

Tho reason of this sudden change was known only to herself and 


572 . The Irish Monthly. 


Madge. And it brought much happiness to both, but particularly to 
Dora. For now she felt she had something to live for—something to 
keep in her own heart and rejoice over. This was the knowledge that 
Lord Ashfield loved her and was anxious to take her just as she was, 
without fortune or name—a mere waif cast up by the sea, and make 
her his wife. She had refused him because of the secret of her life. 
But he loved her—that was sufficient. She could wait patiently for 
whatever time might bring about or reveal. 

And so, though thin and wan, weak almost to prostration, Dora 
wore an expression of peaceful happiness as she was carried down to 
Sir Eustace’s carriage. 

“God bless you, my pet,” whispered Madge, as she covered her 
with rugs and arranged the cushions under her back. ‘I trust this 
journey may not tire you too much.” 

“I think not, dear. I feel so happy, and quite excited.” 

é“ Do not be uneasy, Madge,’’ said Sylvia. ‘‘She seems so much 
better that I am sure the drive will not hurt her. Grandpapa and I 
will look after her well.” 

“I am sure you will, dear. You are all that is good and kind.” 

And, acting on a sudden impulse, Madge stooped and kissed - 
Sylvia on the lips. This was the second time she had embraced her 
since the night of the wreck, when she had clasped her in her arms in 
terror and alarm. On the first occasion, on the beach at Seaport, she 
did not know that the child was her sister. But now she was well 
aware of that fact, and her heart felt full of love for this girl, whom 
she had once guarded with so much tender affection. 

For an instant Sylvia was surprised at this unexpected show of 
friendship from Madge, who was generally very reserved. Then 
smiling, she put her arms round her neck and returned her embrace 
with warmth. 

Madge burst into tears, shook Sir Eustace by the hand, and 
hurried back into the house. 

‘‘ Poor Madge, she cannot bear to lose you even for a day, Dora,” 
said Sylvia, as the carriage bore them swiftly on their way. ‘‘ She is 
truly a loving sister.” 

“Yes,” said Dora tenderly, “ Madge has a heart of gold.” ' 

Meanwhile Madge returned to her room, and, having recovered 
her usual calm, began to arrange wardrobes and drawers that had 
been upset in her preparations for Dora’s departure. She worked 
long and steadily, and by lunch-time everything was in order, and she 
was free to take that meal in peace before going out to pay some 
visits. 

But as she sat at her solitary luncheon she had little appetite. 





f 


A Striking Contrast. 573 


The room seemed lonely and deserted. She missed Dora from her 
sofa, and wondered sadly when she should see her flitting about again 
in her pretty dresses and dainty ribbons. She and her sister had been 
very happy in this comfortable home that Sir Eustace had provided 
for them, and she could not bear to think that this time of peace was 
at an end, perhaps for ever. And yet, as she sat alone, she could not 
rid herself of a strange, unaccountable presentiment that such was the 
case. A crisis had come in their lives. Dora and she would never be 
to each other what they had been in the days gone by. Lord Ashfield 
loved her darling, and she returned his affection. Therefore she 
must soon lose her. Dora wus resolved not to marry him till this 
secret was made known to him. But would she have strength to hold 
out against his powerful will? He was determined she should be his, 
and sooner or later he would surely conquer. 

é“ There would be one happy. way of settling this matter,” she 
thought. “But alas! I fear it is too much to expect. That is, if 
Lady Ashfield would tell her son the story of the wreck, and that he 
should insist on saying nothing about it—on leaving Sylvia as she is, 
and marrying Dora by the name she has borne so long. My wish to 
depose the present Sylvia has passed away. Her goodness and beauty 
have won my heart. And it seems cruel to disturb her—to endanger 
her happiness. Heigh ho! if we had only never known her, never 
loved her, we might have worked against her without pain. But 
now ” : 

‘‘A note for you, Miss Neil. The messenger is waiting for an 
answer,” said the servant, entering the room at this moment. 

Madge took the letter and glanced at its contents. It was short 
and ran thus :— 





“My dear Miss Neil,—Can you come to me about half-past three? 
I want to speak to you very particularly. Kindly tell the servant yes 
or no. 
“ Yours sincerely, 
“ HarmioneE AsHFIELD.”’ 


The girl’s dark brows met together in a frown. She had not seen 
Lady Ashfield since she had visited her in her lodgings, and had 
extracted the fatal promise from poor little Dora. She had not 
forgotten that scene, and found it hard to forgive this great lady for 
her insulting language on that occasion. Her first impulse, therefore, 
on reading this note was to refuse to see her ladyship, or listen to 
what she had to say. But when she reflected that by doing so she 
might, perhaps, interfere with Dora’s future happiness, she resolved 
to face Lady Ashfield, no matter what the interview might cost her. 


574 The Irish Monthly. 


é“ Tell the messenger yes,” she said to the servant. “I will be 
with Lady Ashfield at the hour she names.” 

At half-past three, precisely, Madge rang the bell at 16 Belgrave- 
street. The door was quickly opened, and the footman led her ac 
once to Lady Ashfield’s boudoir. 

“ My dear Miss Neil, how extremely good of you to come to me so 
punctually,” cried Lady Ashfield, rising from her chair and coming 
forward with outstretched hands. ‘I am very glad to see you.” 

‘‘Thank you,” said Madge, coldly. ‘‘But may I ask why you 
sent for me ?”’ 

“ Oertainly. But pray be seated. I have just been writing to 
Summerlands—to Dora.” 

“To Dora?” . 

“ Yes; to Dora. But Ido not see that that need astonish you.” 
Lady Ashfield smoothed the folds of her dress and kept her eyes well 
away from the girl’s face. ‘‘ My son tells me he wishes to marry her, 
therefore, [”— 

Madge started forward with smiling countenance. 

é“ You have told him the story of the wreck, and, resolving to keep 
it a secret known only to ourselves, have given your consent to his 
marriage with Dora? Oh, Lady Ashfield, this is really kind. It 
is what I hoped—but ”—— 

“Not so fast, my dear Miss Neill, you misunderstand me quite ; 
I wish my son to marry Sir Eustace Atherstone’s heiress, and it 
matters little to me whether she is tall and dark, or small and fair. 
Money and birth are what I require; so I have written to Dora to 
release her from her promise of keeping this matter a secret. As soon 
as she proves without doubt that she is George Atherstone’s daughter, 
I give my consent to her marriage with Lord Ashfield—not before.” 

“ And what if she refuses to put forward her claim ?” 

‘‘ Then she may remain Dorothy Neil for the rest of her life. But 
i am not afraid. The love she professes for Sylvia will not carry her 
quite so far. She is not likely to sacrifice a brilliant future as Lord 
Ashfield’s wife to an absurd idea of sparing this usurper pain.” 

Madge gazed at her in sad surprise. 

‘‘ You spoke quite differently, Lady Ashfield, on our first meeting 
in this room., You then treated me with scorn—refused to believe my 
story, and talked a great deal about your love for Sir Eustace and 
Sylvia.” 

Lady Ashfield coloured slightly. 

‘It was only natural I should doubt the truth of such a strange 

announcement,” she said quickly, “and my friendship for Sir Eustace 
made me think of it with terror. I did not wish to believe it. You 





A Striking Contrast. 575 


and your sister were nothing to me; Sylvia and her grandfather 
were much. “But, now, everything is changed. My son wishes to 
marry Dora. It is necessary she should prove herself his equal in 
birth and fortune.” . 

‘‘Then what do you wish me to do?” 

‘“‘] wish you to go to Sir Eustace, tell him your story, and bring 
forth all the proofs you possess.”’ 

“They are few—utterly valueless, you told me yourself.” 

“I was wrong. I have thought it all out, and come to that 
conclusion. George Atherstone’s wife was fair; that portrait, and 
Dora’s likeness to it, may prove strong evidence.”’ 

é“ And if Sir Eustace does not believe me? If he refuses to cast 
forth the girl he has loved and cherished as his own for the sake of 
a comparative stranger—what then?” 

‘We must go to law, hunt up Anne Dane, and have her 
examined and cross-examined —leave no stone unturned till we restore 
Dora to her rights.” 

é“ And for this purpose am I to use the money bestowed upon me 
by our generous benefactor? Are we to turn upon him, and, with his 
own gold, work his misery and unhappiness ? ”’ 

“Your manner is theatrical, as usual, Miss Neil,” said Lady , 
Ashfield, with a harsh little laugh. ‘‘ But I do not wish you to use 
Sir Eustace’s money. I am quite willing to bear all the expenses.” 

“You are very generous, But, tell me—does Lord Ashfield wish 
this to be done? Is he ready to enter upon this law-suit? ” 

Lady Ashfield shrugged her shoulders. 

“ I shall not consult him about the matter. He is quixotic to the 
last degree. This morning when he told me of his wish to marry 
Dora, I thought it right to Jet him know that she claimed to 
be Sir Eustace Atherstone’s granddaughter. He seemed overjoyed 
at the news. He now knew the terrible secret, he cried, that 
had made the girl refuse to become his wife. He was delighted 
when I acknowledged that that was the reason, and declared that 
it was of no importance, and should not stand in the way of their 
union. But, I said, you will surely take steps to restore her to her 
proper position. You cannot marry her till the world knows she is 
not a mere dressmaker’s apprentice supported by Sir Eustace, but his 
son’s only child, and heir to a large fortune.” 

“ And he replied?” asked Madge, eagerly. 

“That he would take no such steps. That he loved Dora, etc., 
and that he cared nothing for money or birth. Just what I expected 
from his radical ideas. However, I shall not ask his opinion now, but 
set to work at once. With your help” 





576 The Irish Monthly. 


é“ That I must decline to give, Lady Ashfield.’’ 

“What!” She glared angrily at Madge. ‘You do not, you 
cannot mean what you say?” 

‘“‘T do mean it most decidedly. I am thankful, God only knows 
how thankful, that Lord Ashfield has shown himself so generous in 
in this matter. Had he acted otherwise, he would have been unworthy 
of my sweet Dora.” 

"Are you a fool, Miss Neil, or mad,” cried Lady Ashfield, ‘‘ that 
you talk in this absurd fashion ?”’ 

é“ Pardon me,” said Madge gravely. “Iam neither mad nor a 
fool. But I am glad that this world is not all selfish and grasping ; 
glad, above all, that the man who is about to wed her whom I have 
loved as a sister all these long years, is full of kind impulses, untainted 
by worldly feelings and a sordid love of money.” 

é“ You speak with wonderful indifference about these matters, now 
that my son has proposed for your sister,” said Lady Ashfield, with a 
contemptuous sneer. ‘If you will not, and do not prove the truth of 
your story, I will look upon you as a most arrant impostor. For, 
unless you are, why should you have changed so suddenly? A year 
ago you were all eagerness to depose Sylvia and put Dora in her place, 
and now, forsooth, you would not pain her or her grafidfather.” 

“ A year ago I did not love Sylvia—I did not know her—she was a 
mere name to me; and my sweet Dora was ill and in want. I had not 
accepted favours innumerable from the hands of Sir Eustace Ather- 
stone; he was an utter stranger to me. I wasnot held back by any 
feeling of pity for people I did not know. I thought only of Dora. I 
felt bound to do all I could to have her acknowledged as George 
Atherstone’s daughter. Now all is changed. My hands are tied—the 
two people who are most concerned in in the matter, Dora and Lord 
Ashfield, wish it kept a secret. Until they ask me toreveal what I know, 
not a word shall escape me; so I think, Lady Ashfield, you have 
little chance of proving your case.” 

é“ Little,” she said grimly, “ and I am not quite fool enough to try. 
But I tell you solemnly that until Dora is proclaimed to be Sylvia 
Atherstone, I shall never consent to her marriage with my son.” 

‘‘ Lord Ashfield is of age. He can do as he pleases.” 

“True. But I hold money he cannot touch. Should he displease 
me, I can will it away, leaving him an impoverished peer, with little 
but his title to recommend him.” 

‘That is a question that does not concern me,” said Madge coldly, 
“ but must be settled between you and Lord Ashfield. And now, as 
you thoroughly understand my feelings and intentions, I shall wish 
you good-day.”’ 


A Striking Contrast. 577 


“Good-day.” Lady Ashfield bowed stiffly, and rang the bell. 
Madge returned her salutation with dignity, and walked quietly 
from the room. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 
AT BAY. 


The journey to Summerlands was accomplished without incident. 
It was a beautiful April day, warm, bright and clear. And as Dora 
drove along, she felt herself grow stronger every moment, as the fresh 
air came in at the carriage window and fanned her pallid cheek. 
Sylvia and Sir Eustace were well pleased to see her look so brisk, and 
teased her playfully about her returning health and spirits. 

For some time their way lay through streets and squares, across 
Clapham Common, and down miles of roads lined with suburban 
villas. But at last the region of brick and mortar was left behind, 
and they found themselves in the country. On all sides were green 
fields, hedges budding into leaf, and wide stretches of downs covered. 
with sheep and merry, frisking lambs. 

Dora was in ecstasy, and gazed at everything with evident delight. 

‘It is pleasant to be in the country,” she cried. ‘It was so good 
of you to bring me, Sir Eustace. But then, you have been so kind to 
Madge and me, that we shall never, never be able to thank you.” 

“ My dear child, do nét talk of kindness,” he answered smiling. 
“It is a pleasure to me to be able to do anything for you. Sylvia 
and I‘dove you dearly, and rejoice to have you with us. Eh, Sylvia?” 

“Yes, grandpapa. Indeed wedo. Dora is to be my sister now. 
I am determined to keep her with me as much as I can.” 

“ Madge will object to giving her up so very often. She loves her 
too well not to want her at home.” 

“ And she shall have her sometimes,” said Sylvia laughing, “if 
she is good. But Madge shall come and stay a long time also, I hope. 
Summerlands is a large house, remember. We have plenty of room 
there.” 

‘So we have—or rather you have,” said Sir Eustace, bowing, 
“for I must not forget that I am your guest down here, my darling. 
Dora, Summerlands belongs to Sylvia. She is ourhostess. So we 
must be very respectful to such a great personage.” 

‘‘Grandpapa, you are a tease.” 

“Tease? My dear, is it not true? Did I not buy this place for 
you, and you alone ?”’ 

Vou. xvi. No. 209. 91 


578 The Irish Monthly. 


“Yes, but I refuse to have anything to do with it till’ —~ She 
paused and blushed. 

“Till you are married ? ” 

“No, not even then. Not till you require it no more. And I 
hope—oh, so sincerely, that that may not be for years and years to 
come.” 

“Good little girl. You would miss your old grandpapa? His 
love is of great value in your eyes.” 

‘‘Grandpapa, Id rather have your love—the knowledge that J 
was your own best beloved granddaughter, than all the riches and all 
Summerlands ever heard of in the whole world.” 

é“ You hear, Dora?” he said in a voice full of proud delight. 
“ What a loving little girl this is!” 

“Yes,” replied Dora smiling, “she is a devoted granddaughter, 
Sir Kustace.” 

‘¢ Devoted, indeed, and her devotion is fully returned. There is 
nothing I would not do for my Sylvia. Her love has been a precious 
boon to me, and every day I thank God on my knees that Anne Dane 
was able to rescue her from a watery grave and place her safe and 
well within my arms.” 

“ Oh,” thought Dora with beating heart, ‘‘ who would, who could 
bring trouble to these two? Who would disturb their happy love, 
and show them in what a cruel manner they have been deceived? I 
certainly could not. Td rather die.” 

“You look sad, little Dora,” said Sylvia, laying her hand caress- 
ingly on that of the invalid. “Are you getting tired ?” 

“ No, not at all; but I was thinking, Sylvia, of that strange, sad 
night on board Zhe Cimbria. ” 

“ But you cannot remember it? I cannot.” 

“I seem to remember it dimly,” answered Dora, thoughtfully. 
“ At least, [think Ido. But then, Madge and I have talked it over 
so often, that, perhaps, I only fancy I do. But, Sylvia, what became 
of Anne Dane? Is she dead?” 

é“ Dead ?” Sylvia laughed merrily. “Not at all. She is as well a 
possible, although she sometimes fancies herself somewhat weak, poor 
old dear. She hates London fogs, and leads a life of comfort, and, [am 
afraid, idleness at grandpapa’s place in Lancashire. However, you 
shall have the happiness of seeing her soon. I have invited her to 
Summerlands expressly to meet you.” 

“Sylvia!” Dora turned pale; a look of terror came into her 
eyes. 


“Well, dear. I thought you'd like to see her for the sake of old 
times.” 


A Striking Contrast. 579 


“ Yes, yes, of course,” said Dora quickly. “I would not know 
her again. But Madge” 

“ Madge would remember her, of course; and I know she wants to 
see her. Lord Ashfield told me so long ago. I tried to get her to 
come up to town, I even told her it was t» meet her old friend, Madge 
Neil. But she would not move. She is very careful of her health, I 
assure you.” 

“ Aud did she promise to come to Summerlands to meet Madge ? ” 

“ No, that is the fun. I have prepared a pleasant surprise for her. 
She has not the slightest idea that either you or Madge will be there. 
I am longing to see her face when she sees you first.” 

“Sylvia, you have not done right,” cried Dora, with emotion 
“You have not indeed.” 

Sir Eustace and Sylvia looked at her in astonishment. 

“Not done right? My dear Dora, what can you mean?” 
they cried together. 

“Nothing, nothing,” said the girl in confusion. ‘‘ But Anne 
is old. It will be a shock to see us without warning.”’ 

é“ As fur that,” replied Sylvia, gaily, ‘‘ you need not be alarmed. 
Anne is not easily startled. And then, you know, she has heard long 
ago that you were saved from the wreck. So she will not take you 
for ghosts, dear. However, lest you should be uneasy, I shall send 
for Anne, and tell her of your arrival. Will that satisfy you?” 

“ Yes,” answered Dora, dreamily, “that may avert some of the 
danger I dread. But I must write to Madge and warn her.” 

“ Well. dear, do as you like,” said Sylvia. ‘‘ But imagining others 
as weak as yourself, [ think you exaggerate the importance of the 
meetmg. Madge will take it very quietly, I am sure.” 

‘Perhaps so; I hope so, dearest, And, of course, [ am very 
weak, and easily alarmed.”’ 

é“ You have talked too much, dear child,” said Sir Eustace kindly. 
é“ Your voice sounds tired, so close your eyes and go to sleep.” 

“Yes, I think I have,” she answered with a faint smile. ‘I feel 
very weary.”’ 

é“ Poor darling, it was a shame to let you wear yourself out,” 
cried Sylvia. ‘‘I am very angry with myself for allowing you to do so, 
and now you mnst not speak again. Lie back there, and close your 
eyes.” 

Dora did as she was told, and, with a sinking heart, thought 
sadly of this fresh complication in their affairs. She felt bewildered 
and alarmed. A meeting between Anne Dane and Madge was to be 
avoided above all things: And now, Sylvia, in her innocence and 
ignorance, in hopes of giving a pleasant surprise to her friends, had 
planned to bring it about in the most dangerous manner possible. 








580 The Irish Monthly. 


‘‘T am thankful Madge did not come with us,” she thought, ‘for 
I shall have time to warn her, and, perhaps, induce Anne Dane to go. 
She will be anxious to guard the secret for her own sake. That was, 
of course, the reason she did not come to town. Oh, Sylvia, Sylvia, 
how imprudently you have acted.” 

“I hope you are rested, dear, and able to look about,” said 
Sylvia’s sweet voice, about half an hour later. “Here we are at 
Summerlands. Is it not beautiful ? ” 

Dora raised herself a little, and opened her eyes, The carriage 
had passed through a fine old gateway of richly wrought iron, and 
entered an immense park, full of elms and oaks of ancient lineage. 
The grass was green and mossy, carpeted now, on this lovely spring 
day, with primroses and violets. Herds of deer browsed upon the 
slopes and looked up indolently as the noise of wheels disturbed their 
solitude. Far down, below the undulating lands, lay a large lake, its 
waters sparkling brightly in the sunshine; and, above its banks, 
their outline clearly marked against the sky, rose the beautifully 
wooded range of the Surrey hills. 

é“ It is lovely—a paradise on earth,” cried Dora. ‘Oh, Sylvia, 
what happiness to know that this is all your own. How you would 
suffer, were it ever taken from you!” . 

“I daresay. Yes, I am sure it would be real pain, for I love the 
place,” said Sylvia. Then, smiling at Sir Eustace, “I am not 
uneasy ; grandpapa’s word is as good as any deed of settlement. And 
even my father will have no right to touch it, I believe.” 

é“ Certainly not,” suid Sir Eustace. “ This house and estate are 
mentioned in my will as belonging to my granddaughter, Sylvia 
Atherstone, and her heirs for ever. Neither George nor any other 
living creature can ever lay a finger on them. It will belong only to 
Sylvia, her husband, and her children.” 

“I don’t think anybody is likely to wish to take it from me, grand- 
papa,” said Sylvia laughing. ‘‘So you and Dora need not alarm 
yourselves.” | 

“I feel no alarm, dearest,” he replied smiling. ‘It is yours as 
_ securely as the law of England can make it.” 

Dora sighed and looked out over the rich pasture lands. 

How secure they were, these two! How unsuspicious of evil. 
And yet what a terrible sword hung suspended over their heads, 
threatening every moment to fall and crush them with sorrow. 

“ Never, with my sanction, shall this secret be revealed,” resolved 
Dora bravely. ‘‘ But alas! too many know it now. And how can I 
tell what course Lady Ashfield may pursue?” 

The carriage stopped. They had reached their destination. Sir 
Eustace opened the door and sprang out. 











A Striking Contrast. 681 


“Welcome to Summerlands, my pretty Dora,” he cried. ‘‘ May 
you grow strong and rosy in our beautiful country air.” 

‘‘Thank you,” she answered in a low voice. ‘I will do my best 
to show my gratitude for your love and Sylvia’s.”’ 

é“ That is right,” he cried gaily. ‘‘The best way you can do so ie 
by growing as healthy as possible.” 

“ And in order to accomplish that,” said Sylvia, “' she must rest. 
She must not tire herself now. So she shall be carried to her room 
at once.” 

“I think J can walk, dear, if you will help me,” said Dora. “I 
feel quite able to do so.” 

‘Very well; take my arm,” said Sir Eustace. ‘‘ You go to the 
other side, Sylvia, and we'll help her slowly up between us.” 

The staircase at Summerlands was broad and low, and with the 
assistance of her friends Dora reached her room without much fatigue. 
Nevertheless, she was glad to lie down on the sofa and rest until it 
was time for lunch. 

“ See,” said Sylvia, when Sir Eustace had withdrawn and the two 
girls were alone, “this is your sittingroom—in there your bed- 
room; and here,” raising.a heavy curtain, “is my boudoir. I 
thought it would be nice to be near each other.” 

Delightful,” cried Dora, “and you must not leave me much 
alone, Sylvia. I do not want to be too great a nuisance. But I hope 
you will come to me often, dear.” 

“Of course, constantly. And, as we are only separated by a 
curtain, I can slip in at all kinds of odd moments. I shall make no 
noise ; and if you are asleep, I shall creep out again, without disturb- 
ing you.” . 

é“ Thoughtful little Sylvia. You are to good to me, for ”—— 

‘‘My darling, as if that were possible. But good-bye for the 
present. I must go and look after grandpapa. Deésirée shall bring 
you your lunch directly. I hope you don’t feel too warm. But I 
thought it best to have a fire in your room, as the evenings are 
chilly.’’ 

‘‘Itis very pleasant, dear. I felt cold after my drive.” 

“I thought you would. Be sure and eat all you can, Dora, and 
remember you must drink your Carlowitz. I ordered it specially for 
you.” . 

‘I shall not fail to do so. You play the part of head nurse 
admirably, my fair Sylvia. And I am resolved to please you by strict 
obedience to your orders.” 

‘That is right. An obedient patient is sure soon to be a complete 
cure. We shall soon have you running gaily all over the house.” 


582 The Irish Monthly. 
True to her promise, Dora did her best to eat the dainty lunch 


' that Désirée placed before her; but her appetite was small, and when 


the tray was carried away, the amount of chicken consumed was 
scarcely noticeable. 
- At three o'clock Sylvia looked in, dressed in her out-door things. 

“I am going for a walk with grandpapa, Dora. He wants me to 
see some improvements at the farm. I hope you will not feel lonely 
whilst I am away?” 

é“ Not at all. I will take my afternoon sleep. Do not hurry on 
my account. I shall be quite happy.” — 

“Very well, dear. Sleep will do you good.” 

Then Sylvia kissed her tenderly, and, drawing on her gloves, 
went to join Sir Eustace. 

After a time Désirée came in and put some fresh coal on the fire, 
and hoping that mademoiselle would soon fall asleep, left her alone. 

But Dora could not sleep; she felt restless and unsettled. Her 
mind was full of the thought of Anne Dane and her meeting with 
Madge. The advent of this woman filled her with terror, a sense of 
danger that she could not shake off. 

“ But, really I am foolish to think so much about her,” she said to 
herself. ‘‘If Madge is warned, all will be well. She will not come, 
I am sure, when she hears that Anne Dane is here ; she could not meet 
her in a friendly spirit, and she now wishes to spare Sylvia and Sir 
Eustace. I will greet her quietly, be cold and distant in my manner, 
and say nothing about the wreck. But Madge could never do that; 
the sight of the woman would make her forget everything but my 
wrongs. Oh, mother, mother,” she cried drawing forth her beloved 
Miniature, and pressing it to her lips, ‘‘ what sad straits I am in. 
Kept out of my birth-right, my lawful inheritance, longing to be 
restored to the position that should be mine, for the sake of the man 
I love, yet prevented from proclaiming my right to it by the affection 
and gratitude I feel towards those who have been so good and kind to 
me.” 

Then, as the daylight wanes, a feeling of weariness takes possession 
of Dora, and she falls into an uneasy slumber. Evening comes on, 
the fire blazes up, and the flames play fitfully upon her worn cheeks, 
and touch her golden hair with their brilliant light. 

Suddenly the door opens, and a stealthy footstep approaches the 
sofa. Dora does not hear—is unconscious to all around, till a hand 
is laid upon her bosom, and she dreams that someone is trying to 
wrest her mother’s portrait from her neck. 

Then she awakes with a start; and, opening her eyes, sees an 
elderly woman bending over her and feels her hot breath upon her 
face. 








a Striking Contrast. ' ‘583 


"> Who are you?’ she asks indignantly. ‘‘ How dare you touch 
me.” 

The woman does not reply, but gazes fixedly at the girl. 

All at once a light breaks in upon Dora. This is the nurse who 
betrayed her master’s trust. ‘his is the creature who had thrust them 
all into their present false position. As this flashes quickly through 
her mind, she raises herself on her pillow, and grasping the miniature 
firmly with one hand, she pushes the unwelcome visitor away with the 
other. 

‘‘I know who you are now,” she cried breathlessly. ‘You are 
Anne Dane.” 

“And what if I am,’ replied the woman with a sneer. “Who 
are you?” 

“1?” Dora looked at her with reproachful eyes. “I am the 
poor little infant you left to perish on board Zhe Cimbria.” 

“You rave,” cried Anne, her voice growing hoarse and loud in hex 
auger. ‘‘My master’s child was my only care. I saved her. That 
was all I could be expected to do.” 

“ And that you did not do. You know, and Madge Neil knows, 
that I am Sylvia Atherstone, whilst the child you saved from the 
wreck was Dorothy Neil.” 

Anne became livid with passion, and she raised her hand as thougl: 
to strike the girl before her. But Dora shrank away with a cry, and 
the woman let her arm fall once more to her side. 

‘If you say that again,” she hissed, “ I might, I am sure I would, 
kill you.” 

““No, no,” said Dora, recovering quickly from her fright, “you 
are not wicked enough for that, bad as you are. But you cannot deny 
my statement. You know itis true. Now confess—is it not exactly 
as I say? Am I not Sir Eustace Atherstone’s granddaughter, and is 
this not the portrait of my mother?” 

Anne glared at her fiercely, and tried to snatch the miniature from 
her hand. 

é“ You lie,” she cried. ‘‘ You and your sister have trumped up 
this story. But no one will ever believe it: and if you even 
hint at such a thing, Sir Eustace will drive you from his door.” 

é“ Perhaps so. But now, confess, Anne Dane, am I not the real 
Sylvia Atherstone? And do you not feel bound to acknowledge here, 
between ourselves, that the little girl you placed in Sir Eustace 
Atherstone’s arms was not his granddaughter, but the child of a 
stranger, and Madge Neil’s sister?” 

"é I will confess nothing.” 

The woman’s words were frozen on her lips; she trembled in every 


584 The Irvsh Monthly. 


limb. For there in the doorway, her face white as marble, her eyes 
full of wild terror, stood her young mistress. 

Sylvia clung to the curtain that separated her room from Dora’s, 
as though afraid to fall. She did not speak, but looked from one to 
the other with an expression of intense agony. _ 

Dora covered her face with her hands, and uttered an exclamation 
of dismay. Anno turned away and seemed about to leave the room. 

But Sylvia waved her back to her place, Trembling violently, 
the woman obeyed, and stood in silent anger before the suffering 
girl. 
“ Anne Dane, is this statement true?” 

Sylvia’s voice was low and hoarse, her words scarcely audible ; 
but they seemed to burn into the brains of those who heard them. 
Anne did not reply; her eyes were fixed upon the ground; she knew 
not what to answer. 

‘Speak. Is this story an invention?” insisted her mistress, ‘“ or 
is it true? Is she Sylvia Atherstone, or am I?” I 

Anne laughed wildly. 

“ My dear Miss Sylvia,” she cried, recovering her self-possession, 
sean you belive such nonsense for an instant? This girl and her 
sister have made up this story between them. Look how ashamed she 
is. Try her, ask her to swear to the truth of it, and you will see that 
she dare not.” 

Dora shivered ; she could not speak. She would not destroy her 
dear friend’s happiness; and yet she could not tell a lie; so she gazed 
steadily at the fire, and uttered not a single word. 

Sylvia gazed at her longingly. Oh, if she would only look up and 
say that it wasall untrue. If she, herself, could awake and find that 
it was onlyadream! But, alas, she was not asleep. And there she 
stood, with this hateful story torturing her mind and filling her heart 
with sorrow. 

“I do not believe that either Madge or Dora would willingly 
wrong me,” she said sadly. ‘ They would be incapable of inventing 
such a lie as this would be, were it not true.” 

‘‘ Of course,” cried Anne, “ they would not do such a thing, for I 
have heard they are both as good as gold. But, probably, poor 
Madge’s head was turned the night of the wreck (it was an awful 
experience), and she fancied her sister went in the boat along with 
me; that’s just what it is, Miss Sylvia ; and this girl, who was an infant 
at the time, naturally knows nothing about it, but believes what she 
has been told.” 

Sylvia watched Anne closely. But the woman’s countenance was 
inscrutable. She looked perfectly honest; all her nervousness had 
disappeared, and she talked with the greatest coolness and decision. 





A Striking Contrast. 585 


éI wish I could believe you,” said Sylvia, sighing. “ But I can’t, 
and yet ”— 

“ But you must,” she cried eagerly. ‘‘What I tell you is true. 
You must forget all that you have heard this girl say. It was 
nonsense. So please forget it.” 

é“ Yes,” —Dora clasped her hands and looked imploringly at 
Sylvia—‘ forget it—forget it. Oh, my darling, I was so determined 
not to speak. And had I known you were there, 1 would not have 
spoken. I would not pain you for the world.” 

And bowing her head, she burst into an agony of weeping. Sylvia 
knelt by her sofa, and put her arms round her. 

‘Dearest, I know that. And for that reason I cannot imagine 
that you would have said what I heard you say to Anne unless you 
believed it to be true.” 

‘‘ Yes—I—that is,” stammered Dora. “ But pray do not think 
about it. I never, never would have spoken, only that woman made 
me forget my resolutions, and filled me with rage and indignation by 
trying , 

Anne made an angry sign, and Dora paused abruptly. 

“ Well, dear,” questioned Sylvia, “what did she try to do?”’ 

“ Never mind, dearest,” replied Dora, laying her cheek caressingly 
against Sylvia’s. “I only spoke because I thought we were alone. 
And believe me you are now Sylvia Atherstone. All the world knows you 
as such, and I am content to remain your friend, Dorothy Neil. Put 
everything else out of your head. But—oh—I feel—strange. Sylvia 
—where are you?” 

And with a little sigh Dora fainted away. 

Sylvia laid her back tenderly on her pillow, and opening the 
window let in some fresh air. 

‘* Poor darling, this scene has tried her sorely,”’ she murmured, as 
she fanned her gently. ‘‘ Poor, dear little Dora.” 

And as she bent lovingly over the unconscious girl, Anne Dane 
darted an angry glance at her, and slipped unnoticed from the room. 

At last Dora opened her eyes and looked wildly round. 

“ Oh,” she cried, grasping Sylvia’s hand. “Are you there? I 
thought, I believed you had gone, and that you hated me now.” 

“ My darling, why should I hate yout If your story is true, ’tis 
you who should hate me.” 

“ No, no. You have done no harm. But I, like a traitor, have 
crept into your home and into your love, and then have destroyed 
your happiness and peace. Forgive me, Syivia, forgive me.” 

And sobbing convulsively, Dora hid her face in her pillow. 

“Dora, you must not make yourself ill again. Pray be calm, 


586 | The Irish Monthiy. 


dearest,” said Sylvia soothingly. ‘You have not destroyed my 
happiness although you have disturbed my peace. But it is right 
that this story should be made known and thoroughly sifted. You 
and Madge should have told us sooner. Grandpapa,” her voice 
broke a little, her lips trembled—‘‘ must hear it at once, and make all 
necessary inquiries.” 

‘“‘ Sylvia— oh—do not tell him. If you only knew how anxious I— 
we have been to keep it from him—from you.” 

-‘And in that you were wrong. But now, let us say no more 
about this matter at present, You are tired. You must try to get 
some rest.”’ 

Sylvia rang the bell, and Désirée appeared. 

Mies Neil wishes to go to bed,” she said. “ Please see that her 
room is ready.” 

“Sylvia,” whispered Dora, as the maid went into the adjoining 
chamber, “tell me that you forgive me—that I—that you love me 
still.” 

‘My darling !”’ 

Sylvia clasped her in her arms and kissed her tenderly on lips and 
brow. 

é There is nothing to forgive, Dora. Itis not your fault. And I 
love you as dearly as ever.” 


(Zo be concluded next month ) 


“DE PROFUNDIS.” 


HE tide flowed in ’neath a sunlit haze, 
The glittering foam on its breast was white; 
lt swept to the black cliff’s shadowed base, 
Then burst above in a plume of light. 


The sea-gulls turned their breasts of snow 
To the summer sun with shrieks of glee ;— 
And I thought,—“‘ if the earth be full of woe, 
Joy lives at least in the heart of the sea.” 


Then a coast-guard wandered along the cliff, 
And I saw him ever turn on the tide 

A constant watch, his face was grave,— 
A rope and grapnel hung at his side. 





“ De Profundis.” . 687 


And I scarce knew why, but it seemed to me 
That the sea itself grew drear and dread ;— 
That the sunlight took a cruel gleam ;-— 
That the shriek of the sea-gull jarred o’erhead. 


And the air grew chill. I laid asids 
The pallette and brush—I could scarcely speak 
The question : “ what do you look for?” He said : 
“The young girl’s body—drowned last week. 


“She was reading half-way down yonder cliff — 
The day was fair and the ebb was low, 

When a tidal wave grew up in the west 
And crept in shore-ward, sure and slow. 


“The few that saw gave a warning shout ; 

She heard it and rose to her feet, they say,— 
Then never stirred, but quietly watched 

The wave as it rose and took her away. 


“ She sank at once: perhaps the fear 
Had made her faint. So 1 watch the shore. 
A man’s corpse floats on the eleventh day— 
A woman’s rises a day before.” 


He turned and went, and I saw him still 

Bend his tireless watch on the wide white foam. 
The sea gave a bitter mournful cry ; 

And I thought of the vacant childless home. 


O Lord, O God! Thou hast told us this, 
That thy ways in the midst of the waters lie. 

So the death-track leads to the foot of thy Throne, 
What matters it where or how we die? 


And the words I had heard came back to my brain 
“ She saw it and rose to her feet, they say... 
‘A woman rises a day before”... 
Her body is due to rise to day. 


De profundis clamavt ! Jesus, Lord ! 
lf the bones must lie in the dim cold deep, 
So Thou bring them at last to Thy loving Face, 
What matters it how or where they sleep ? 


“ She heard it, and rose to her feet”... Who knows 
What voice she heard in that mound of foam, 

As it burst, and took her forth on its breast— 
‘Thy Voice, O Christ, as it called her Home. 


O bitter breaker of hearts !— O Sea !— 
With your lurid glimmer of green and spume 
Of spray,—your dread power pales at His words, 
“ Give Me back My Dead in the Day of Doom.” 


Monatacu L. GnRIFFIN 


588 The Irish Monthly. 


SIR CHARLES HALLE THE MUSICIAN. 


AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SPEECH. 


[Before Sir Charles Hallé started for a professional trip to Australia, from which 
he has just returned, his Manchester friends gave him a farewell banquet, and Ae 
, gave them the following account of himself, which seems to us worth rescuing 
from the newspapers of last April. Not nearly enough is done to cultivate the 
musical tastes of the Irish people. ] 

TR honour which you pay me, I take for granted, means 
much more—the appreciation which you all feel for the art 
which I profess, that is, for music, which has been a sort of 
religion to me all my life; and if ever in my closing days I can be 
proud of anything, it will be that I have during my long hfe 
always endeavoured to serve the cause of music, and to serve it 
well. After all, I think musio is a very important factor in 
civilised life. It has certainly influences beyond those of any other 
art. That is my opinion. I do not think that by the sght of an 
admirable picture, an admirable piece of statuary, crowds of people 
will ever be so moved as by the strains of music. Tbey touch all 
people, educated and uneducated, and have a great softening 
influence upon the large mass of the people. Speaking of the 
power of music, would it be possible to think that without being 
allied to music, the words of, say the Marsetllaise, recited never go 
well, could have stirred the people of France so much, and caused 
the effects of which we read? Unless the Marseillaise had been 
allied to music that would not have been done. And, on the other 
hand, would the poetry of God Save the Queen, even if admirably 
spoken, have the same influence on the people as when we hear it 
sung? That music has advanced-during the last forty years in 
England is undoubted, but I have been perhaps in a position to 
watch its progress more than any other musician through my 
wandering life, sometimes being in the north of England and in 
Scotland, and sometimes in the south; consequently I have been 
able to see the-progress made. I consider that the forty years I 
have spent in England have been much more interesting to me 
than if I had spent them anywhere else, because certainly the same 
progress has not been made in any other country as in England. 
Let me say a few words about the difference in the state of 








Sir Charles Halle. 589 


music in 1848, when I first made the acquaintance of England, and 
the present time. You must not be afraid if I speak of so long ago 
as before 1848; I will not take you through all those years— 
certainly not; but I may, perhaps, be allowed to say what a great 
many people already know, that it was the French Revolution of 
1848 that brought me to England. Not that I am a political 
refugee—far from it; the reasons that brought me to England 
were far more prosaic—the necessity of providing bread for my 
very small family. After a long residence—at least one of twelve 
years—in Paris, my position there was extremely satisfactory. I 
had plenty to do as teacher of music, which in Paris is the 
principal occupation of all musicians that live there. I had, about 
a week before the French Revolution, so many pupils that I did 
not know what to do with them. There were about a hundred. 
To some I could give a lesson only once a fortnight, and to others 
only every three weeks. Two years before the Revolution, in 
combination with two very distinguished French artists, I had 
instituted for the first time in Paris chamber concerts, which were 
extremely successful, so that at the beginning of February, 1848, 
I was what was considered in the musical line a very prosperous 
man. You must not think that I was prosperous as a commercial 
man regards prosperity. That isa very different thing. Let me 
say that. before February 28, 1848, I had about eighty pupils, and 
that for our concerts, which had just begun, and of which two had 
taken place, the whole room was subscribed for. One week after 
the Revolution I had one pupil, and he was an Englishman. At 
the one concert which I gave after the Revolution, although the 
whole room was subscribed for, there was an audience of thirty- 
seven; the others abstained. They had paid their money, but 
abstained from coming. I found this would not do, and came to 
the conclusion that I must seek my fortune in other countries. I 
soon came to the conclusion to return the money for the few 
concerts which still remained, and the money was fetched with an 
alacrity which I have never forgotten. I was the treasurer, and 
painful it was at that time to return money. Well, I then came 
to England—to London, with no thought whatever of Manchester. 
My first season in London was extremely satisfactory as far as it 
went. I may say that in Paris one of my friends was a remarkable 
man, a banker of the name of Leo, whose house was one of those 
Parisian sa/ons where you were certain to meet with distinguished 


590 The Inish Monthly. 


men in science, literature, and art, and also distinguished foreign 
people. I remember that I had the great and inestimable 
advantage several times to converse—no, not to converse, 1 will 
explain that later—but to see and to listen to Alexander von 
Humboldt. That cannot be said by many at the present day, and 
one evening Í was asked, when he was there, to play—a privilege 
which I appreciated very highly; but I am sorry to say it was not 
as much appreciated on his part. The house of M. Leo was noted 
for its order. Chopin used to play there constantly. The visitors 
were well trained, and there was usually not a move nor a word 
while the music was going on. But Alexander von Humboldt 
never wanted any conversation, because he always talked alone. I 
have watched him very often. He got hold of a little circle and 
held forth. I need not say everything he said was most interesting 
from beginning to end; but he never allowed anybodyyelse to put 
ina word. I remember, when I sat down at the piano, he had two 
or three people next to him, and he held forth on some topic that 
was interesting to them, while I also held forth; so that we were 
performing a duet—or, perhaps I should say, a duel. Sometimes 
I overpowered him, but more often he overpowered me. I shall 
never forget the pitiful faces of the gentlemen to whom he was 
talking, and who knew very well that it was not the thing. Now 
and then they would cast a glance at me, as much as to say, ““ We 
cannot help it.” 

Now, to speak of the music at that time—I do not wish to 
exaggerate in any way, and I shall not do so. When I came to 
London first, knowing a good many people in Paris, [ was 
furnished with letters of introduction to many people there. I 
will only mention Lord Brougham, Richard Cobden, the German 
Ambassador—Chevalier Bunsen—and several others. When I 
went to Lord Brougham, he received me kindly, but at once 
confessed that music was perfectly out of his line, a statement 
which I found was perfectly correct. It was said that he was 
never able to distinguish the tune of God Save the Queen from any 
other, and I drew my inference from that. Another gentleman, 
who later on became a Minister of State, was extremely polite. 
He invited me to his house and asked me to play something to his 
friends. Of course I was anxious to do so, but I was startled, 
when, on leaving him, he asked me a few questions, amongst 
others, “in what style I played?” It was difficult to understand 








Sir Charles Hallé. §91 


what he meant, as he named another eminent pianist and said: 
é“ Do you play in his style P” and I honestly said “ No!” upon 
which he said “I am so glad, because he plays so loud that he 
prevents the ladies from talking.” That is an actual fact. Then, 
one evening a few days after my arrival, I played at the German 
Embassy, and to my surprise I found a whole company consisting 
of many Alexander Humboldts. They all talked at the top of 
their voices, so much so that, although I shortened the piece as 
much as possible, later on, when I was asked to play again, I 
played the same piece over again and nobody was the wiser. Then 
I found that if I asked a gentleman belonging to society, “Do you 
play any instrument ?” it was considered an insult. But times 
have wonderfully changed. When I came to Manchester, the only 
society where you could hear good music was, of course, the 
Society of Gentlemen’s Concerts. I must confess the first concert 
at which I assisted produced a disastrous effect upon me. I 
thought I should have to pack up and go away. But, of course, I 
got accustomed to it. At that time that was the only place where 
music on any large scale could be heard; but it was entirely 
private. It was, in fact, simply a club, from which the public 
were excluded. Well do I remember the long struggle I had with 
the then directors—all most excellent men—to obtain the privilege’ 
that the programmes should be made public. I did object to 
conducting concerts in secret, but they did not seem anxious to let 
the public know what they did. However, they consented, but 
that shows that outside that society no music was heard. IfI have 
been in any way instrumental in bringing about the change, I am 
proud of it. . 

As for the effect music has upon the lower classes—well, some 
of my greatest pleasures have come from the recognition of the 
lower classes. A few years ago I was waiting for a train at Derby, 
when a railway porter, who evidently knew me, said: “ Can you 
tell me, Mr. Hallé, when the Elijah will be performed in Man- 
chester, because I can have permission to take my missus there? ”’ 
I assure you that gave me unbounded pleasure. Then it has 
happened to me that a common workman has brought me a piece 
of cloth worked by himself, and asked me to accept it as a token of 
the pleasure derived from.my concerts. These are satisfactory 
instances, and show that these concerts have a good influence. 
Yesterday I happened to be at Sheffield, and a music seller, who is 


592 , The Irish Monthly. 


ina position to know, said casually to me: “ We have amongst 
our artisans here at least five or six hundred who play the violin.” 
I was surprised, but he said: ‘I know it, because they buy music 
at my shop.” Think of that and compare it with the state of 
music in 1848. It is marvellous. 


INTERPRETING. 


| SAW a song-bird soar up on high, 
I heard it sing in the radiant sky 
Its wondrous song of mirth. 

Glory to God in the highest—Amen! 

And peace and joy to the homes of men 
On earth, on earth ! 


His eyes seemed to pierce the azure dome 

That leads to our Father’s blessed Home ; 
And quaintly curious then, 

As if no scale or measure he knew, 

But joyous as up and upward he flew, 
His song burst forth : 

Glory to God in the highest—Amen ! 

And psalm and anthem and glory again, 

And peace and joy to the homes of men 
On earth, on earth! 


Aye, saints have been wrapt in ecstasy, 
Extatic bird! O, would I were thee, 
To praise with might and main; 
At the door of heaven thou singeast thy glee 
With ha]lowed lips, like the prophet, free 
From sin and stain, 
While angels welcome the sacred strain, 
And gladly catch from its soft refrain 
Those words of worth : 
Glory to God in the highest—Amen ! 
And psalm and anthem and glory again, 
And peace and joy to the homes of men 
On earth, on earth! 





Items from Australia. 593 


Many a sucred solo he sung, 
Many a carol and glee ; 
And I felt my spirit exult among 
The long-filed angel-choirs that throng 
The vast eternity. 
But the singer at length descended low, 
A type of our fate (I whispered) I know, 
For down to the earth we too must go, 
Ere yet to heaven we rise, 
And we'll sing through the endless ages then,— 
Glory to God in the highest—amen ! 
And psalm and anthem and glory again, 
In the skies, the skies ! 


R. O’K. 


ITEMS FROM AUSTRALIA. 


A Catholic Scientist. On October 7th, 1889, the newspapers 
announced that the Rev. Julian E. Tenison Woods, a distinguished 
geologist, had died in Sydney. His death was the result of a 
long illness which had been caused by the hardships he endured 
during his recent travels in the tropics in the interests of science. 
The deceased priest was originally a Protestant, but became a 
convert to the Catholic Church at the time of the Oxford 
Tractarian movement. He was an intimate friend of Canon 
Oakley and of Father Frederick William Faber. He entered the 
Passionist Novitiate, but was obliged through ill-health to leave 
and go to France. Eventually he joined the Australian Mission, 
and was ordained priest in 1857 by Dr. Murphy, the first Bishop 
of Adelaide. For ten years he had charge of an extensive district, 
in which he was often obliged to ride sixty or seventy miles to 
attend sick calls. Those years were full of labour, hardship, and 
danger. Afterwards he became Secretary to the Bishop of 
Adelaide, and finally Vicar-General. He established a teaching 
congregation under the title of “ Sisters of St. Joseph,” which has 
flourished, and numbers at present about 400 members. The 
Sisters devote themselves to the primary instruction of children 
Vor. xvm. No. 209. 92 


594 The Irish Monthly. 


and to the care of orphans and of the aged poor. In 1872 Father 
Woods began to give missions and retreats throughout the 
Colonies, and he spent the rest of his life mainly in that work. As 
a preacher he possessed a sweet and persuasive eloquence. In 
Tasmania he received, it is said, 500 converts into the Church in 
the short space of three years. During his busy missionary career 
he devoted his leisure time to scientific studies, and published 
several large works on the geological formations of different parts 
of the Colonies. He was the author also of “ The History of the 
Discovery and Exploration of Australia,” and of several educational 
treatises. His published writings on botany, paleontology, and 
natural history are numerous. He became the President of the 
Linnean Society of New South Wales, and received medals and 
honours from English, foreign, and colonial societies. In 1883 he 
went to Singapore, at the invitation of his friend, Sir Frederick 
Weld, the Governor of the Straits Settlements. He was accom- 
panied by Father Benedict Scortechini, of Queensland, who, like 
himeelf, was devoted to science. Father Socortechini, in a short 
time, fell a victim to malarial fever; but Father Woods travelled 
extensively through Java, Borneo, the Philippines, and parts of 
China and Japan. He returned to Australia in 1886 with the 
materials for several new scientific works, but he was soon after- 
wards attacked with a long and finally fatal sickness. One of the 
Passionist Fathers attended him in his last moments, and he died, 
as he desired, clothed with the Passionist habit. Public subscrip- 
tions are being collected to place a suitable memorial over his 
grave. 

Penny Postage. On January Ist, 1890, penny postage came 
into operation throughout the Colony of Victoria in accordance 
with a law enacted last year by the Melbourne Legislative 
Assembly. This boon, which has been welcomed with rejoicing, 
is a proof of the great prosperity of the Colony whose capital is 
Melbourne. The population of Victoria is only a little over a 
million, and it is estimated that the change will occasion the loss 
of £100,000 to the Postal revenue during the current year; but 
other sources of wealth render the bearing of that loss compara- 
tively easy. Moreover, it is confidently hoped that the Postal 
revenue will soon recover from the temporary check, and will 
eventually bring in a greater return than heretofore. The people 
of the United Kingdom obtained penny postage in 1840, when the 








Items from Australia. 595 


population was more than twenty-five millions; Victoria has been 
granted the boon when her population is only a million, and her 
people are scattered over an area greater in extent than that 
of Great Britain. 

Monsignor Fitzpatrick. Monsignor Fitzpatrick, the Vicar- 
General of Melbourne, died on the 21st of last January. He was 
born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1810. After finishing his theological 
studies at Maynooth College, he chose Australia as the scene of 
his priestly labours. He was first stationed in Sydney (1837), but 
shortly after Dr. Goold’s consecration as Bishop of Melbourne, in 
1848, he was named Vicar-General of the new diocese. In 1850 
the foundation stone of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Melbourne, was 
laid by Dr. Goold, assisted by Father Fitzpatrick. From that 
time till the Vicar-General’s death, a period of forty years, the 
building of the Cathedral was the work of love to which he de- 
voted his time, talents, and zeal, and he may well be called the 
builder of that noble pile. Asa priest, he was solidly and unob- 
strusively pious, kind and generous to the poor, and of such 
retiring modesty that when he was named Monsignor, he could 
not be persuaded to accept the honour. To avoid displeasing him 
his friends abstained from using the title. At the Month’s Mind 
for the repose of his soul, a public meeting was convened by the 
Archbishop of Melbourne, at which it was decided that the 
memorial to be erected in honour of the late Vicar-General should 
be the completion of the Cathedral. In opening the meeting the 
Archbishop stated that, according to the accounts, which had been 
kept with great accuracy by Dr. Fitzpatrick up to a few days 
before his death, the sum of £149,800 had been already expended 
on the Cathedral buildings, and no debt had been incurred. 
sums of money were at once handed in, and in a few days the 
subscriptions reached a total of £22,000. The Cathedral, when 
completed, will be a truly magnificent structure. Australian Pro- 
testants, contrasting Catholic places of worship with those of other 
denominations, have said that the faith of Catholics in the per- 
petuity of their religion has made them build churches, which from 
their strength and solidity must last for all time. This remark 
applies especially to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Melbourne, and to St. 
Mary’s, Sydney. The vastness and durability of those great 
Cathedrals form a striking monument to Catholic faith, and pro- 
claim the piety, zeal, and self-sacrifice of the children of the 


596 | The Irish Monthly. 


Catholic Church in raising suitable temples for the worship of their 
Creator. ) 

I may be allowed to remark here that during a series of 
religious services, held in February to celebrate the completion of 
the sanctuary of St. Mary’s Cathedral, Sydney, Dr. Donnelly, 
auxiliary Bishop of Dublin, who has lately visited the Colonies 
for the benefit of his health, referred in a remarkable sermon to St. 
Mary’s as a noble work of which Australia had every reason to be 
proud.. He expressed the hope that the courage and energy 
hitherto displayed would continue until the architect’s splendid 
design was carried out to the last line. He also spoke in terms of 
praise of those who, though not Catholics, had given substantial 
aid in the erection of the Cathedral, and he urged his hearers to 
hold in grateful remembrance the kindness and liberality of those 
generous friends. 

The Federation of Australia. In the middle of February an 
important Convention was held in Melbourne to consider the 
advisability of uniting the Australian Colonies under one central 
Federal Government. The Colonies represented by delegates were 
New South Wales, Victoria, Queensland, South Australia, 
Western Australia, Tasmania, and New Zealand: The delibera- 
tions of the Convention, which excited eager and wide-spread 
attention in Australia, were opened by Sir Henry Parkes, the 
Premier of New South Wales. He proposed the following 
motion :'— 

* That, in the opinion of this Conference, the best interests 
and the present and future prosperity of the Australian 
Colonies will be promoted by an early union under the Crown, 
and while fully recognising the valuable services of the members 
of the Convention of 1883 in founding the Federal Council, it 
declares its opinion that the seven years that have since elapsed 
have developed the national life of Australasia in population, in 
wealth, in the discovery of resources, and in self-governing capacity 
to an extent which justifies the higher act, at all times contem- 
plated, of the union of these Colonies under one Legislative and 
Executive Government, on principles just to the several 
Colonies.” 

In his speech the Sydney Premier drew attention to the fact 
that in Australia the subject of Federation was not new. The 
ablest men in the Colonies had left on record their approval of the 


Items from Austraaa 597 


principle of union under a common government, and in Victoria 
in 1857 a Select Committee of the Legislative Assembly 
declared :— 

“ By becoming confederated the Australian Colonies would 

mmensely economise their strength and resources. They would 
substitute a common national interest for loeal and conflicting 
interests, and waste no more time in barren rivalry. They would 
enhance the national credit, and attain much earlier the power of 
undertaking works of serious cost and importance. . . . They 
would possess the power of more promptly calling new States into 
existence throughout their immense territory, as the spread of 
population required it, and of enabling each of the existing States 
to apply itself without conflict or jealousy to the special industry 
which its position and resources rendered most profitable. . . . 
Most of us conceive that the time for union has come.” 

No step, however, was taken to carry those convictions into 
effect until 1883, when the Federal Council, a body composed of 
delegates from all the Colonies except New South Wales and New 
Zealand, was constituted for the settlement of various Federal 
questions. This Council, though only a partial success, has helped 
to develop and form public opinion on the subject of Federation. 
But, in the meantime, the prosperity of the Colonies has been ad- 
vancing with giant strides. Here I cannot do better than give 
some extracts from Sir Henry Parkes’ speech on this great occa- 
sion, which marks an important epoch in the history of 
Australia :— 

‘* But something more has been going on. All the elements of national life 
have been on the increase. There is not one of these important colonies which 
has not felt the wonderful stimulus given to industry, to every kind of enterprise, 
to education and refinement in social manners, and in the estimates of moral life, 
until we are not only now in a condition when we may be contrasted favourably 
with some of the wealthiest cities of the world in respect of our enterprise, our 
skill, our industrial vigour, but in the highest walks of life. The extent to which 
books are bought and read, the extent to which the vehicles of thought have found 
encouragement and nurture in these colonies, is something not frequently estimated, 
but incomparably creditable to us. I doubt not for a moment that, if an investiga- 
tion could be made, there are more readers of the higher publications issued from 
the London. press, such as monthly reviews and the higher order of news- 
papers, like the Spectator, out of a given number, say, more in every thousand of 
the people of Australasia, than there are in a similar section of the people of Great 
Britain. 


“ We have now reached a stage of life where we are not behind any nation of 
the world, either in the figure of industry or enterprise, in the foresight and creative 


598 The Trish Monthly. 


skill of our working populations—in which I inclade both directors and workiny: 
men—or in the higher refinements of civilised society. If that be so, let us for a 
moment pause to consider what this society is made of. We are, according to the 
best calculations that I have been able to have made, at this moment a united 
population of 3,834,200 souls. I have here also the estimated value of the annual 
industrial wealth of this united population. For a single year the value of what 
is produced from elements we possess, from the lands, from the rude elements of 
nature, is not less than £95,042,000. Then let us take the private wealth of the 
people. I wish to be very distinct here. I don’t wish to be understood as mean- 
ing the railways of New South Wales, or Victoria, or New Zealand ; nor do I 
mean the lands of those several colonies, but wealth and incomes privately owned 
py the free citizens of these colonies. We should best test that by comparing it 
with other countries, and I have selected out of many tables with which I have 
been supplied five great nations. In Austria, the private wealth and income of the 
population is £16 6s. per inhabitant; in Germany, £18 148.; in France, £25 15s. ; 
in the United Kingdom, £35 4s.; and in the United States of America, £39 per 
head of the inhabitants, while in Australasia it amounts to £46 per head. So, in 
reality, we stand at the head of the world in the distribution of wealth, which is the 
grandest form of all wealth. A country cannot be said to be in a prosperous 
condition which has a few men of colossal fortune, a few families rolling in 
luxury, and the mass of the people in poverty-stricken homes. The real standard 
of civilisation in ita action upon the diffusion of wealth is in its wide distribution 
over the population to be governed. By that, Australia not only stands ahead of 
the civilised world, but a long way ahead. 

‘* But let us see what this peace-loving people—we are a peace-loving people, 
and I pray to God we may ever remain a peace-loving people—let us see what this 
peace-loving people has done in national provision for the defence of the bounties 
which we possess. 

“ We have an united army of 31,795 men, and to show that this army has been 
constituted with due regard to the most valuable means of forming such, we have 
16,918 infantry, we have 7,226 men in rifle companies—and those rifle companies 
are in a very efficient state—and we have 3,954 artillery. We, then, have not only 
grown in numbers to an extent which amply justifies us, but which justified the 
belief of the men who have gone before us, in thinking that we have arrived at a 
stage of numbers which abundantly warrant us in the thought of building ourselves 
into a nation. We have wealth. and it is impossible for wealth to exist if it were 
not for the well-directed energies of the mind and the physical strength in creating 
it. We have wealth which places us before all the great peoples of the globe. 
There is not one as wealthy as we—not one with the same command of those 
natural comforts of life which wealth ought to be employed in procuring. 

“If, then, we were fitted in the year 1857 to enter into federation, how much 
more fitted are we now? And if we are not fitted now with the element of strength, 
which I have very cursorily pointed out, when shall we be fitted ?’’ 


In the concluding part of his speech the orator said ;— 


é“ I am one of those who believe that it would be a blow at federation, whatever 
may be the decision of this conference, if we attempt to create a federal Govern- 
ment with anything less than full powers. I am as anxious to preserve the proper 
rights and privileges of New South Wales as anyone could be to preserve the right s 
and privileges of Victoria. Indeed, I should be almost afraid to go back to the 








Items trom Australia. 599 


colony which has treated me so well if I did not preserve to her all the privileges 
which were consistent with one of the provinces of a great confederation. The 
Federal Government must be especially framed with plenary power for the defence 
of the country; it must be a body framed with plenary power, with all the 
functions which pertain to national government. But it may possibly be a very 
wise thing indeed that some of these powers should come into force with the 
concurrence of the State Legislatures. That it was in design from the very first to 
establish a complete legislative and executive government, suited to perform the 
grandest and highest functions of the nation, cannot, I think, be a matter of 
doubt.”’ 


The other delegates proposed their views, and the subject was 
very fully discussed. They agreed that there were many sources 
of wealth which could be developed by one powerful government, 
and not effectively by independent provincial States. Among 
these were mentioned fisheries, the efficient lighting of the coasts, 
and more perfect means of communication. One speaker showed that 
the Australian Colonies in point of territory and population, are 
now in a condition parallel to that of the United States of America 
when they federated, and geographically the difficulties of meeting 
in a National Assembly would be far less in Australia than they 
were in America. The Fiscal question was felt to be the chief 
obstacle in the way of Federation, but it was thought that 
it would not prove to be an obstacle impossible to overcome. 
The motion proposed by Sir Henry Parkes was unanimously 
adopted. To it a clause was added to the effect that New 
Zealand would be entitled in the future to join the union of the 
Australian Colonies. It was also agreed that a National Conven- 
tion should be held next year for the drafting of a Constitution, 
and that each self-governing Colony should send to the Conven- 
tion seven delegates and each Crown Colony four. An address of 
loyalty to the Queen brought the deliberations to a close. 


Blessed Peter Chanel. A joyous festival was held in Sydney 
during the first week of May in honour of Blessed Peter Chanel. 
The religious celebrations were carried out with befitting splendour 
in the Church of the Marist Fathers. His Eminence the Cardinal 
Archbishop was present, and preached an eloquent sermon on the 
recently beatified martyr of Futura. In his discourse he gave a 
striking account of the missionary career and death of Blessed 
Chanel, and said in concluding that Catholics throughout 
Australasia would rejoice with the Marist Fathers in celebrating the 
festival of one who had nobly won the martyr’s palm and crown, and 


600 The Irtsh Monthly. 


who had special titles to the veneration and affection of the members 
of the Australian Church. Assembled as his hearers were that day 
around the aftar to pay homage, for the first time, to the saintly 
missionary who had now been enrolled in the glorious heavenly 
white-robed army, it was fitting that, while they lifted up their 
hearts to God and sought the intercession of Immaculate Mary, 
they should seek also the intercession and the blessing of the first 
holy martyr of the Southern Seas. 

A religious festival is to be held next September in the island 
of Futuna in the church which has been built on the spot where 
Blessed Chanel was killed. Cardinal Moran, accompanied by 
several bishops and priests, will honour the celebration with his 
presence, and will, no doubt, avail himself of the opportunity to 
visit some of the other missions in the South Seas before returning 
to Sydney. 


SONNET. 


IFE’S darkest hours are not the hours we weep 
Prone on the grave of receut happiness ; 

The soul’s worst pain is when the pain grows less, 
And sorrow, wearied, lays her down to sleep. 
Our highest powers are finite. Ever creep ~ 

Time’s icicles about our wells of tears ; 

Of love and loss, with slow succeeding years, 

The narrowed heart may only memories keep. 


Father of all, who fashionedst our dust, 
‘When thou wouldst heal the heart thou mak’st to bleed, 
Forbear! A greater boon I ask of thee: 
Oh, grant me strength to live, if live I must, 
However brief the joys thou hast decreed, 
But let my grief, great God, eternal be. 








601 


THE ORGANIST’S VIGIL. 


PP WiLiGET fell early in the organ gallery of this great 
Bavarian Church. Fully an hour ago the sun had ceased to fire 
the deep purple and crimson of the clerestory windows, and only 
the golden haloes about the heads of the saints therein showed 
that the light of day still lingered in the summer sky. 

The air of the church was heavy with the mingled perfume of 
flowers and incense. A great feast had come and gone; every 
altar bloomed with scented blossoms; drapery of white and gold 
gleamed beyond the mass of tapers on the high altar. 

Only two worshippers remained in the vast building. The 
day had been one of perfect joy to both priest and people, but, as 
the twilight deepened, the groups before the shrines of favourite 
saints and at the altar of Our Lady disappeared; all, saving 
Father Litchenberg and Wilhelm Grafmann, the organist. The 
priest still prayed before the altar of his patron; the musician 
lingered at the organ playing and praying alternately. 

The father scarcely realised that material fingers were pressing 
the keys of the great instrument high up in the tribune. To him 
it seemed only that the angels lingered where for so many hours 
the praises of their God had squnded. It seemed, indeed, only 
fitting that echoes of the day’s music should return in that evening 
hour; that a few scattered rivulets from the mighty waves of 
thanksgiving which all day long had broken over the heads of the 
faithful, should ripple on into the quiet night. Yet not for this 
alone had the old priest waited in the darkening church. 

There were silent intervals in the organ musio in which the 
father knew that the player was speaking with his God. Abholy 
man, as well asa great artist, was this Herr Grafmann. With 
him the day had opened at the altar, and his after service of praise 
had all been offered in thanksgiving for that great Eucharist in 
which he had participated so devoutly. Truly, to him, the day’s 
music had been a deep devotion, and once again he had made the 
oblation of his whole life to the service of religion. 

Until now the music had been low and solemn, scarcely more 
than a breath of softest harmony ; but as the shadows darkened it 
seemed as though new life came back to the wearied player. 


602 The Irish Monthly. 


_ Theme after theme returned to his mind as he sat alone at the 
organ-board, oblivious of everything save the presence of the Most 
Holy, and the sacred music of the Church. 

Away down in the silent sanctuary, however, a sacristan and 
his assistants were quietly removing every vestige of the day’s 
pomp, every sign of the feast whose hours were scarcely yet run out. 
In the great sacristy beyond, the old priest was already standing 
vested in a black cope. Before the sanctuary screen a bier had 
been placed. Six yellow tapers flickered gloomily in the shadow 
.of the rood loft. 

Father Litchenberg smiled as the organ’s diapason reached his 
ear in the inner sacristy. 

“ It is better so,” he murmured to himself ; “it is fitting ; I will 
not disturb him.” 

No mourners were visible as the priest and sacristans met the 
coffin at the entrance of the church. Only the men in charge of 
the funeral were there—sufficient in number to carry. the body 
from the hearse to the bier. Perhaps they marvelled at the jubi- 
lant music—for it was no funeral march. Herr Grafmann played 
as the little procession, all unseen by him, made its way down the 
nave of the church. 

The simple receptive rite was soon over, and the bearers de- 
parted. The sacristan made his last arrangements for the night, 
but the priest and the organist both remained. 

é“ Friendless and alone, with not a soul to watch or pray beside 
the coffin,” said the father to himself, as he came back into the 
church and knelt at a prie-dieu by the bier. At least he would 
give this poor soul the benefit of a few prayers. For him to 
watch was easy and natural; to pray was, as it were, to breathe 
and live. 

There had been little or no cessation of the music, only it had, 
again and again, changed its character, Occasionally, indeed, the 
musician had been heard praying aloud. Snatches of the compline 
psalms reached the old priest’s ears, recited rather than sung, as 
the organ gave out long soft chords with ever-changing harmonies, 
like the echo of many Adolian harps stirred by a distant wind. 

“Ecce nunc benedicite Dominum. . . Qui statis in domo 
Domini. In noctibus extollite manus vestras in sancta, et bene- 
dicite Dominum.” 

Neither priest or organist heeded the flight of time. The 


The Organist’s Vigil. 603 


church was now in complete darkness, for the sacristan had put 
out the candles around the bier, and the sanctuary lamp was 
little more than a speck of light. High up in the clerestory might 
be seen the glimmer of summer lightning. 

At length, loud and clear above the whispering organ melody, 
came the clanging of midnight bells. The startled player shrank 
and cowered, like a man struck by an unexpected blow. To him 
the discord was as an acute bodily pain. Another instant and his 
feet sought the pedals, his fingers pressed the keys of the “ great,” 
and the building thrilled, with the thunder of rolling harmonies. 
The sudden silence that followed was almost an agony to the old 
priest, who was kneeling in prayer in the remote corner of a side 
chapel; but almost before he had realised the cessation of the 
music—high, clear, piercing, melodious, but, oh! so weird, came 
what the father thought could ‘be nothing less than the music of 
a human voice. 

“And at midnight there was a cry made: Behold the bride- 
groom cometh, go ye out to meet Him,” flitted through the priest’s 
mind as he paused in his prayer to listen. Plaintive and slow, 
sad but impressiyely beautiful, the melody reached his ear, the 
organ appearing to follow the voice in an undertone of accompani- 
ment, sweet and subdued to very painfulness. 

Father Litchenberg arose: to whom could such a voice belong ¢ 
High in the tribune darkness hung like a cloud ; the figure of the 
organist was totally obscured. Nothing was visible to the aged 
eyes that sought the source of this wonderful melody. Half in- 
voluntarily he looked towards the high altar, to the bier that lay 
before it; for an instant he expected to see the figure of the dead 
standing in the shadow of the rood. But the lamplight glittered 
steadily on the unruffied pall, and the priest smiled as he chided 
himself for so foolish a thought. 

Suddenly the voice ceased. The soft accompaniment still 
flowed on, rhythmic and beautiful; then like a voice from the 
forgotten dead the old melody recurred. Now, however, it could 
not be mistaken. The player was using a stop for which the old 
organ was ever more famed than for its vor humana. 

Father Litchenberg sat down upon a chair in the nave. There 
was no mystery after all, except that of the “strange yearning 
after we know not what, and the awful impression we know not 
whence,” produced by exquisite music. 


604 The Irish Monthly. 


It was very soothing now, thought the priest, indeed he feared 
that it might prove to be of too lulling a character for the prayerful 
watch he had proposed to himself. Certainly he was more fatigued 
than he had thought. The air of the church had become stifling, 
and the incense he had burnt for the censing of the body hung 
about the place in a thick cloud. Yet he must go back to his 
place at the prie-dieu. But the good man’s labours of the preced- 
ing day had been greater than he imagined. Anxious as he was 
to spend a great part of the night in devotion, tired nature insisted 
upon sleep. Before the father could rouse himself sufficiently to 
pursue his holy work he had fallen into a deep slumber. 

As the night advanced the lightning appeared to brighten. A 
muffled moan of thunder reached the ears of the organist, and he 
almost prayed that the storm might gather and break. Dear to 
him as were the tones of the organ, he loved the splendour and 
majesty of Heaven’s own music. He told himself that if the 
thunder came nearer he would leave the instrument. To play at 
such a time would have seemed to him a sacrilege, his music a 
discord in the ears of the angels. 

Still he remained at the key-board, running his fingers over 
the choir-manual, and again came the half-intoned words— 
phrases from the Church’s psalms, praises, petitions, and 
' invocations. 

“ Benedicite, lux et tenebree, Domino : benedicite, fulgura et 
nubes, Domino.” 

With these words the organist sprang to his feet. The storm 
had broken over the church in great magnificence. Making the 
sign of the cross the musician fell upon his knees. Heavy peals of 
thunder shook the tribune, and the very organ pipes appeared to 
thrill and to emit a half stifled sound as the awful crash broke 
upon the unnatural quiet of that morning hour. 

Herr Grafmann rose from his knees. That this was no passing 
storm was now evident. He was faint and dizzy with the heat of the 
high gallery; surely, he thought, it will be less stifling below. 
Then, slowly and cautiously, he descended the winding steps;. 
slowly and cautiously he made his way down the broad, high nave. 
He would kneel where, a few hours ago, he had received his God : 
there he could pray peacefully and without distraction. He 
remembered that at his Communion he had placed himself at the 
extreme end of the screen, under the shadow of Our Lady’s shrine 





\ 


The Organist’s Vigil. 605 


at the gospel side of the altar. Before the tabernacle of Jesus, and 
under the shelter of Mary’s mantle, he would kneel and pray. 

He had reached the end of the nave, and knew that he was 
approaching the entrance to the sanctuary, when his foot struck 
against some metallic substance. At the same time his hand came 
in contact with one of the tall candles at the bier. For the 
moment he imagined that he had arrived at the foot of the Lady 
- statue—he knew that candles had burned there during the day: 
but, behold! immediately in front of him shone the sanctuary 
lamp! Putting out his hand, he touched the drapery of the bier. 
Another second, and a vivid flash of lightning showed Herr 
Grafmann that he stood in the near presence of the dead. 

* * * - 

“My God!” the organist cried aloud, as he knelt at the screen. 
“ Art Thou not truly here! Am I not Thy child! why, then. 
should I fear ? ” 

But the perspiration stood thick upon his brow, and his whole 
frame shook with a nervoustremor he had never known before. 
Still he knelt and tried to pray. 

The storm: abated a little, the peals of thunder lost something 
of their appalling loudness, but the steel blue lightning flashed 
incessantly. 

Herr Grafman gradually forced himself to a state of calmness. 
Niow and then he prayed aloud with an intensity rare even in a 
man of his excitable temperament. More than once he paused and 
stole a glance at the coffin. Again he redoubled his supplications, 
and prayed for the living and the dead. Bye-and-bye, the pre-. 
sence of the corpse served only to stimulate his devotion ; after a 
while, however, he found his thoughts again wandering to the 
subject of the unknown dead. Several times he rose from his 
knees in order to scrutinise the coffin more closely. 

“Not the body of a man,” he ejaculated once; “ perhaps a boy 
or girl. Ah! dear God! grant to them eternal rest!” 

He was ashamed of his distraction, and told himself he ought 
to be content with the knowledge that there was another poor soul 
to pray for. 

It suddenly occurred to him that one of his singing-boys had 
been ailing for some considerable time, and that the preparations 
for the festival just celebrated had made it impossible for him to 
visit the sick child as he was wont. Yet, thought the organist, 


606 | The Irish Monthly. 


it could hardly be that the boy should die without his hearing of 
it. . 
' Herr Grafmann had risen to his feet, and was trying to make 
out the probable size of the coffin. The darkness was still very 
heavy, and only an occasional flash of lightning made any object 
visible. Stretching out his arms until they touched the extremities 
of the coffin, he decided that it was too big to contain the body of 
a young boy. 

“Yet Carl was tall for his age,” the organist said to himself, 
“and I know no other person that was sick. Still in a neighbour- 
hood like this—ah ! it is foolish ! ” 

But he could no longer pray. MResolutely stretching out his 
hand, he clutched the pall. If only he could get a light: there 
must he a name on the coffin lid. 

Already the pall was half removed, when suddenly a more 
than usually vivid flash of lightning seemed almost to strike the 
coffin-plate, playing and scintillating upon the name and age of 
the dead. 

“ Merciful God ! ” 

The cry rang through the church—s ory of agony and despair, 
succeeded by a loud crash. Herr Grafmann had fallen heavily, 
overturning one of the great candlesticks by the bier. 

* * há s 

That ory of agony, together with the orash of metal, had roused 
Fy. Litchenberg from a slumber which had been too deep to be 
disturbed by the storm. As yet, however, he scarcely realised 
what had happened. THastening to the sacristy, he obtained a 
light. When he returned, the organist lay still clutching the 
pall, and with his head resting on the sanctuary step. But he 
was conscious. 

“Ah! my father—do you know?” He could only gasp, and 
speak in a broken whisper. The priest placed a soft cushion under 
his head, at the same time bidding him be silent. 

“Oh, my Father! tell meall you know.” 

But the priest saw that a little stream of blood was issuing 
from an open wound in the man’s forehead. 

“ Lie very quietly, my son,” said Father Litchenberg. “You 
have hurt your head,” and retiring to the sacristy he brought back 
a linen bandage. But it was in vain that he urged thé inj jured 
man not to speak. Herr Grafmann’s incessant ory was: 








The Organists Vigil. 607 


‘Tell me, tell me quick,my Father, all you know of her.” 

It was little enough the old priest had to tell, but as he 
staunched the bleeding wound, and busied himself to make the 
musician comfortable, he all unconsciously healed a wound of the 
heart, the existence of which he had never suspected. 

The woman had been an actress or singer, Father 
Litchenberg did not know which—had been seized with a sudden 
illness at her hotel lodgings—had sent fora priest, made a general 
confession of her whole life, had lingered for a few hours, and died 
after receiving the last rites of the Church. Te priest did not 
even remember her name. 

é Oh ! the mercy of God! the goodness of the good God!” 

The organist had risen to his feet. ; 

‘Nay, my father, Iam well; I am strong now.” 

Father Litchenberg could not restrain him. He had taken a 
candle in his hand and was dragging the wondering priest to the 
side of the coffin. 

“See! my father; read!” he excldimed, holding the light 
above the coffin-plate. 

As the priest read the inscription, the truth suddenly flashed 
upon him. 

“ She was your — 

“My daughter,” said the organist, breaking into a flood of 
happy tears. 
há * * há 

Shortly afterwards Herr Grafmann was left alone with the 
body of hischild. Father Litchenberg had tried hard to persuade 
him to spend the remainder of the night in the presbytery, but in 
vain. Accordingly the father left the church with the intention 
of getting medical assistance ; first, however, he would ask one of 
his fellow-priests to take his place near the organist in order to 
to be at hand if the latter required his help. 

The thunder and lightning had now ceased, but heavy 
showers fell noisily on the church roof. 

When the organist found himself alone, he arose from the 
chair upon which he had been sitting, and again knelt on the 
sanctuary step. Heavy grief flooded his soul, and yet a grief 
lightened inexpressibly by those few words of the father. For 
more than twenty years he had mourned his daughter, his only 
child, dead to him, as he feared she was dead to grace. But 


608 The Irish Monthly. 


actually to die—so near to him—in the same city, almost in the 
same neighbourhood, and he not to know; truly it was a bitter 
sorrow. Yet what could he have done for her ? he asked himself. 
Had not the merciful Providence of God arranged for the best ? 
Had not his daily prayer been fully answered? Not fully, per- 
haps; but what was worth a thought beyond the magnificent fact 
that his child had died in the bosom of God’s Church, died after 
humble confession, with the sacraments of the Church, with every 
sign, so the priest had assured him, of a true and real con- 
trition. This wis the one thought he clung to, a thought full 
of joyful hope, and dwelling upon it he found but little room in his 
heart for sorrow. 

It was now, however, that Herr Grafmann began to be conscious 
of a terrible beating and throbbing in his head, of a faintness and 
dizziness that made him rise from his kneeling position, and stagger 
to the nearest seat. After a few moments of rest, he set himself to 
pray; but he could neither fix his thoughts nor remain where he 
had seated himself. .How he wished that he could get back to 
his organ, if only for a few minutes. Only to touch its keys, he 
thought, would help him. i 

Groping his way down the nave, heavily and unsteadily, the 
organist reached the steps of the tribune just as the priest sent by 
Fr. Litchenberg entered the church. But the father made no sign 
of his presence, and Herr Grafmann began to climb the stairs. A 
slow ascent, indeed, for his temples throbbed fearfully, a heavy 
weight seemed to be upon his head, and it was only by clutching 
the hond-rail that he could keep himself from falling. Yet after 
an almost heroic struggle he gained the landing and staggered to 
the keyboard. 

é“ Nunc dimittis servam tuum, Domine,” came slowly and 
feebly from the organ-loft, but when the singer had reached the 
Gloria the key changed to a plaintive minor. 

The suffering man had begun the chant of the “ De Profundis.” 

In the darkness below a door opened and shut. Fr. Litchenberg 
had returned from his errand of mercy; in another moment the 
doctor would be at the church. 

“ Si iniquitates observareris, Domine ; Domine, quis sustinebit !” 

“ Quia apud te propitiatio est” 

_ Both the fathers started forward at the same moment. The 
minor had broken off suddenly. There came a long, long sigh— 
an inarticulate prayer, and then—the sound of a falling body. 

When Father Litchenberg and his companion gained the 
tribune, Herr Grafmann was dead. 





Davin BEARNE. 


609 


ELLEN O'LEARY * 


ASLEEP. asleep ! God loved you well, 
My dear one, when He let you lay 
Life’s burthen down that autumn day. 


’T was bravely borne. Who knew you learned 
How white a truth true living brings 
To glorify the homeliest things. 


Who knew you learned the noble lore 
Of boundless faith and hope and love 
For Ireland here, and God above. 


Eosg KavanaGa. 
* Died October 15, 1889. 


THE KERMESSE AT ATH. 


A FLHOUGH a kermesse is generally considered the equivalent 

for our fair, the continental féte has certain distinctive 
features which make it very different from its English relative. 
Each town and village abroad has its peculiar customs attached to 
the opening of the kermesse; but never have I witnessed a stranger 
ceremony than “‘ Goliath’s Procession ” at the kermesse of Ath, in 
Belgium. 

It is, indeed, due to “ Grand Gougias,” as Goliath is named 
in the patois of the country, that the little town of Hainault has 
attained its renown. The origin of this historical procession is of 
very ancient date, having been started in the thirteenth century. 
In the year 1215, the environs of Ath were ravaged by the plague 
which continued so long that the bishop organised a pilgrimage to 
the shrine of Our Lady of Tongres, not far from the town, and 
made a vow in the name of the people to renew it each year. 

Immediately, to their great joy, the plague ceased. The 
Athois were faithful to their vow of making their annual proces- 
sion, but this, however, gradually lost its religious character, and 

Vor. sv. No. 209. 93 


610 The Irish Monthly. 


in the middle of the fifteenth century popular imagination 
introduced divers personages into the cortége, and each trades’ 
guild had its particular richly-robed representative. 

In 1786 Joseph II., the Sacristan King, to the great indigna- 
tion of the people, put a stop to the procession. Then the 
revolutionary spirits of ’89 also troubled themselves about these 
religious mummeries, and on the 28th August, 1794, Goliath and 
his wife, Madame Victoire, were publicly burned. In 1801 the 
procession was reorganised, and since then it has peacefully pursued 
its yearly route. 

Of the original cortége there only remain the figures of 
Goliath and Madame Victoire, Samson, the two-headed eagle—the 
arms of Ath—and the typical chariot of the town. The feast is 
inaugurated by a strange ceremony called “ Goliath’s Wedding.” 
On the Saturday before the kermesse the clergy, faithful to the 
old custom, chant solemn Vespers at about three o'clock, and 
probably, for the only time in the year, the bourgmestre or mayor 
and the town council assist at the devotions in the parish church of 
St. Julian. Goliath and Madame Victoire are stationed outside 
the porch till the conclusion of Vespers, when they are officially 
united by the civil authorities. Then the bells ring cheerily, and 
the whole town makes merry, everyone, even the poorest, eating 
their “tarte”’ for “ gofiter.” 

The next day, Sunday, the kermesse or fair is in full swing, 
and the huge figures which have been stored away during the 
night in an old courtyard, are now paraded twice through the 
town, the streets being thronged by an immense crowd gathered 
from all parts of Belgium to witness the novel sight. 

At the head of the cavalcade comes the two-headed eagle, 
representing the arms of Ath. A tiny boy, clad in Louis XV. 
costume, is seated on the back of the monstrous bird, which is 
borne by a man hidden under a basket frame—the mode in which 
all these enormous figures are carried. Several beautifully-dressed 
‘groups or guilds are in the procession, and these are preceded at 
intervals by bands (not too musical) and a few carabineers who 
fire salutes at every halt. 

Some of the large chariots representing agriculture, eto., are 
very handsomely decorated. On the car of the wine provinces are 
seated wine goddesses, each draped in the provincial colours. 
Above them is a young girl fluttering the flag of Belgium. 





The Kermesse at Ath. . 611 


Another car is greeted with loud applause, as it contains those _ 
great men who claimed Ath as their birth-place: Justus Lipsius, 
the renowned professor ; Hennepin, the missionary, who discovered 
the sources of the Mississippi; Défacq, De Trazéguies, etc., eto. 
A fine collection of men, chosen for their stature and handsome 
faces, and whose picturesque old-world dress makes them very 
attractive. 

The old chieftain of Ceesar’s time, Ambiorix, with fierce visage 
and long sword frightens small children on his unconscious route.. 

One of the finest cars is the fishermen’s. It bears a splendid 
sixteenth century barque, equipped by the brave sailors of the 
Dendre, the small river on which Ath is situated. 

Then Samson, the great giant of the Bible, goes past, clad in 
the uniform of a grenadier—evidently anachronisms do not 
frighten the good Athois. It is but right that Samson should 
be followed by the shepherd David, who is represented by 
a young boy, guiding a few white-woolled sheep and fleecy lambs. 
And, last of all, oomes Goliath (or Gougias), dancing opposite his 
spouse, Madame Victoire. It is a woundrously absurd sight to 
witness these two gigantic dolls, with their immovable waxen 
faces and stiff figures, going around gravely in time to the music. 
Although the poor bearers are changed every five minutes, they 
appear to feel the fatigue excessive. It seems very ridiculous 
that thousands of people should gather from all parts to see this 
motley show, where huge dolls are the attraction instead of men, 
as at the Lord Mayor’s show, and yet it is the unique quaintness 
of the whole thing which draws one to look at it. The height of 
these puppets can be imagined, when, reaching out of the fourth 
story window of a large building, we could just touch their 
shoulders. 

In spite of the childish grotesqueness of the sight, I could well 
enjoy witnessing it again, and joining in the gaiety and busy noise 
of the Kermesse at Ath. 

M. Stenson. 


6 The Irish Monthly. 


TO A BEE FOUND DEAD IN A FLOWER. 


(ABELESS of sunset and the night-wind’s stir, 
Though round thee fast the gathering shadows creep, 

Still drinkest thou contentment at the deep 

Fountain of flowers, O honeyed wanderer ? 

Nay, never more, as in the days that were, 

The flowers for thee their kisses they shall keep ; 

Embalmed with thine own sweetness thou dost sleep 

In this pale, summer-scented sepulchre. 


Duty and pleasure were made one in thee 

For death’s approval ; and the passer-by 

Finds here cool comfort in life’s noon-day heat ; 
For so, my soul, fulfilling like the bee 

My God-appointed labour, haply I 

May some day fall on death and find it sweet. 


Jogs Frrzparrioz, O.M.T. 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. The present occupant of the Chair of Ecclesiastical History in 
the great ecclesiastical College of Maynooth, the Rev. Thomas 
Gilmartin, has conferred a boon upon the students of that college, 
and upon many others, by preparing a Manual of Church History 
(Dublin: M. H. Gill & Son). The first volume, which will, we hope 
at no lung interval, be followed by a second, brings the history of the 
Church to the pontificate of Gregory VII. The matters discussed are 
arranged with great clearness and order, displaying throughout the 
entire work the practical experience of the author, who has greatly 
assisted the reader by the full contents and index, and by the brief 
headings of the paragraphs which run along the margins, and which, 
as the Professor remarks in his preface, will be found most useful to 
students, especially when preparing for examinations. The style is 
calm, lucid, and unaffected. We trust that the publishers will take 
care to bring this excellent Manual of Church History under the 
notice of the vast body of American clergy, for whose requirements it 
is admirably adapted. 


SR. 





' Notes on New Books. ‘618 


2. ‘*Occasional Papers,” by His Eminence Cardinal Moran, 
Archbishop of Sydney, N. 8. W. (Dublin: Browne and Nolan), is 
one of the best fruits of the great learning and great industry of the 
Irish Australian Cardinal. The volume consists of lectures delivered 
in Australia and Ireland—for Perth mentioned on the first page is 
not in Scotland, but in western Australia—chiefly on historical 
questions that are closely connected with religion. The only lecture 
that discusses a ‘‘ neutral” topic, is the last in the book, on the fruits 
of self-culture ; and certainly it is the most entertaining of the whole 
series. The instances which the Cardinal selects, and which he 
describes with great skill and in considerable detail, are the following, 
grouped in the order in which we name them, and which certainly is 
not chronological: Hephaestion, Pope Sixtus V., Cardinal Wolsey, 
Cardinal Mezzofanti, Claude Lorraine, Hogarth, Turner, Canova, 
Benzoni, Haydn, George Kemp, Pugin, Burns, Shakespeare, Louis 
Veuillot, Copernicus, Herschel, Cuvier, Faraday, Eugene O’Curry, 
Bianconi, Father Thomas Burke, and Sir John O’Shannassy. Most 
of these examples evidently go in pairs. Cardinal Moran in some 
cases condenses an interesting little biography into a couple of pages. 
The general reader will probably find ‘‘ Occasional Papers” the most 
entertaining in the long list of the writings of the first Australian 
Cardinal—who, by the way, is a nephew of the first Irish Cardinal. 

3. By far the finest work, as regards printing and binding, we 
have seen issuing from the busy press of Benziger Brothers, of New 
York, Cincinnati, and Chicago, is De Phslosophia Morals Praelecttones— 
the lectures on Moral Philosophy which were delivered by Father 
Nicholas Russo, 8.J., in Georgetown College, United States, during 
the last academical year. This class-book of ethics completes Father 
Russo’s college course of philosophy. It is written in pleasant and 
limpid Latin, but the notes often quote Mr. Henry George and others in 
English: for the burning questions of the day are dwelt upon with 
particular care, as property in land, strikes, divorce, paternal and 
state rights in education, &c. 

4. Nearly seven hundred very compact, though clearly printed 
pages, enclosed in an appropriately grave and solid binding, form the 
new edition of a famous treatise which Father Faber was fond of 
quoting under the name of Baker’s Sancta Sophta. Surely that 
original title ought not to have been entirely suppressed as it is in 
this reprint, which is called “ Holy Wisdom, or Directions for the 
Frayer of Contemplation’? (London: Burns & Oates). Another 
objectional omission is that the title-page bears no date, and ne 
explanation is given of the remote date, 1876, appended to the 
preface by the editor, Abbot Sweeny. The original compiler, Father 


614 | The Irish Monthly. 


Serenus Cressy, seems to have as much right to be named with the 
book as Father Augustine Baker. The spelling is completely 
modernised, and the editor has taken great pains to make this treatise 
not only an interesting but a useful addition to libraries of ascetic 
theology. 


5. The clever critic who reviews books in Mr. Labouchere’s famous 
journal, Zruth, writes to his supposed correspondent a ew weeks ago : 
“ If you have but odd half hours to spare, you cannot do better, I 
think, than take up a volume of “The Idle Hour Series” of short 
stories, especially if that volume should be Miss Rosa Mulhoiland’s 
‘Haunted Organist of the Hurly Burly, and other Stories’ (London : 
Hutchinson & Co.). The ‘other stories’ are all marked with the 
exquisite grace, delicacy, and refinement you have learned to look for 
in Miss Mulholland’s work.” 


5. We ought long ago to have given a hearty welcome to ‘A 
Ruined Race, or the Last MacManus of Drumroosk,” by Hester 
Sigerson (London: Ward and Downey). The name which Dr. 
George Sigerson was, as far as we know, the first to distinguish 
particularly, has lately been brought into notice in connection with 
some literary work of much promise by two youthful sisters, Dora 
and Hester Sigerson. The identity of name may cause some confusion, 
for it is the mother of Miss Hester Sigerson who has chronicled the 
fate of the last MacManus of Drumroosk. Mrs. Sigerson displays 
an intimate knowledge of Irish scenes, Irish idioms, and Irish hearts. 
At the same time, the same complaint may be made as we ourselves 
have made with reference to Charles Kickham and other Irish story- 
tellers. With all their love for Ireland, they do not seem to us to 
give to their readers a sufficiently bright and amiable idea of our 
dear country, and our dear people. They exaggerate, and, therefore, 
deform, As a matter of fact, we are very like other people, only 
nicer. ‘‘ A Ruined Race,” though as melancholy as its name, exhibits 
plenty of humour, and still more of feeling and imagination. 


7. Some of the new publications of the Catholic Truth Society 
deserve to be noticed much more fully than is now possible. We 
spoke of one of them last month—Judge O’Hagan’s *‘ Children’s 
Ballad Rosary.” We are glad to hear that it is already widely 
circulated. Father Bertrand Wilberforce, O.P., tells very well the 
beautiful story of the great saint of his Order, St. Vincent Ferrer. 
Mr. C. T. Gatty’s excellent paper on Christian Art, read at the late 
conference of the Catholic Truth Society at Birmingham, is another of 
these penny tracts. Itis brilliant in thought and style, and makes us 
hope for much from Mr. Gatty, who is, we believe, a recent convert 








Notes on New Books. 615 


and a relative of the authoress of “ Parables from Nature.” The 
Bishop of Salford’s impressive address on ‘ England’s Conversion by 
the Power of Prayer” appears in the same series at the same price, 
for which also you can have together Canon Murnane on the 
Temperance Movement, and the Rev. Edmond Nolan on Thrift. 
Lastly, the Catholic Truth Society gives us ““ The Catholic Church and 
the Bible” and four of Father Richard Olarke’s penny meditation 
books, these new ones being on the public life of Our Lord. 


8. One of the excellent devices of this indefatigable Society just 
referred to is to group together a certain number of its penny books 
into a well bound volume for a shilling. This it has done for some of 
Father John Gerard’s bright and original essays on the theology of 
natural history, and also for some of Cardinal Newman’s controversial 
lectures. To the latter volume (which, however, costs two shillings) 
is prefixed the Rev. Dr. William Barry’s admirable sketch of the 
Cardinal's life, which is also published separately for a penny. 
Another shilling volume contains a complete set of the addresses at 
the Birmingham Conference mentioned before. 


9. Father William Amherst, S.J., has given us a curious and 
interesting little book in his Review of the Life of Valentine Riant 
(London: Burns and Oates). Valentine Ryan in Ireland is a man’s 
name, but in French Valentine Riant is a feminine name—that of a 
Frenchwoman who died very young in the Society of Marie 
Réparatrice about ten years ago. Lady Herbert of Lea published a 
translation of the French account of her short career; and it is to this 
work that Father Amherst calls attention by his summary of facts 
and his original and edifying reflections. 

10. Are any of our readers interested in ‘‘ Pearson’s Tide Tables 
and Nautical Almanack for 1891?” It seems good value for six- 
pence. We name it, as it has been sent to us, though it comes oddly 
among such books as Miss Drew’s translation of the Choruses of the 
Ober-Ammergau Passion-Play (London: Burns and Oates); Bishop 
Egger’s Letter to a Young Man (Benziger: New York); an excellent 
twopenny book of Maxims and Prayers of St. Thomas Aquinas 
(London: Burns and Oates) ; and a beautiful little manual of devotion 
and reparation to the Holy Face of Our Redeemer, published by the 
Benzigers under the title of “ The Crown of Thorns.” 

11. ‘Grandfather and Grandson” is a tale of the persecutions 
under Queen Elizabeth, translated from the German of Father Joseph 
Spillman, 8.J., by a Nun of the Oarmelite Oonvent at Wells in 
Somersetshire, and orders are to be sent there for the book which 
dispenses with a publisher’s services. A fifth edition has appeared of 


6016 .-- -- .. The Irish Monthly. 


Mr. C. F. B. Allnatt’s- admirable treatise “ Which is the True 
Church? or a Few Plain Reasons for Joining the Catholic 
Communion ” (London: Burns and Oates). The fulness, aptness, 
and originality of his quotations and testimonies drawn from all 
quarters have given this author a very high position among con- 
temporary controversialists. Mr. J. C. Bodley of Balliol College, 
Oxford, published in The Neneteenth Century and The Edinburgh 
Review two very able and eloquent articles on the present position of 
the Roman Catholic Church in the United States. These have been 
reprinted in a pamphlet in the country to which they refer (Baltimore: 
John Murphy and Co.) with the omission of an offensive paragraph 
which the Editor of The Edinburgh Review thought fit to foist upon his 
contributor without his knowledge ahd in opposition to his opinions. 
These are very interesting and valuable papers, set off by a peculiarly 
graceful and animated style. 


12. By far the daintiest product of the Irish press for many a day 
is “Little Gems from Thomas a Kempis selected and arranged for 
every day in the year, by Sara O’Brien” (Dublin: M. H. Gill and 
Son). The selection is made with great tasteand judgment; and the 
printing and binding help to make the book itself a little gam. When 
a new edition is required, the months ought to be named at the top of 
the right-hand pages, so that, opening anywhere, we may at once 
know where we are. Many a vacant moment will be filled up 
pleasantly and profitably by those who carry this exquisite tomelet 
about with them always. 


13. We have read with great interest the two first numbers of the 
newest sixpenny magazine, The Paternoster Review (11 Olement’s Inn, 
Strand, London). With the Marquis of Ripon writing about India, 
and M. Barthélemi St. Hilaire about a French colonial question, with 
Mr. Lane Fox on the Primrose League, and Mr. John O’Oonnor, M.P., 
on New Tipperary, we at once get an idea of the width and im- 
partiality of the policy on which Zhe Paternoster is to be conducted. 
The poetical contributor to No. 1 is Aubrey de Vere, to No. 2 George 
Meredith. ‘Clyde Fitch,” a name that we have never seen before, is 
signed to an exquisitely picturesque and pathetic little French sketch, 
called “ The King’s Throne.” 


DECEMBER, 1890. 





A STRIKING CONTRAST 


BY THE AUTHOR OF ‘‘ THE MISER OF KINGSCOURT,’’ ‘‘ THE STRANGE ADVENTURES 
OF LITTLE SNOWDROP,”’ KTO. 
4 





CHAPTER XXV. 


DO THEY SPEAK THE TRUTH ? 


OME two hours later Sylvia sat in the library, at her grand- 
father’s feet. Her face was pale and sad; her eyes red with 

weeping. In Dora’s presence, lest her sorrows should cause the girl 
pain, she had made a violent effort to appear calm and unconcerned. 

But once away from this restraining influence, the full horror of 
the situation seized her, and her soul was torn with grief and alarm. 

Sylvia had never been vain of her personal attractions. But she 
was proud, though almost unconsciously so. Proud of her noble 
family, her aristocratic name, her ancient lineage. It pleased her to 
remember that she was Sir Eustace Atherstone’s granddaughter; and 
she felt a just pride in the courtly old gentleman, whom she loved 
with an absorbing affection. And so, as she left Dora’s room, this 
cruel story of the wreck standing out in all its hideous reality before 
her mind, the thought that she must fall from her high estate, that 
henceforth she would have no right to the name she bore, filled her 
with anguish. | 

In the solitude of her pretty boudoir she wrestled long and fiercely 
with her grief. She felt no anger against Dora or Madge. But the 
recollection of Anne Dane’s deceitful conduct enraged and embittered 
her. . 

“ But she denied the story. It may be false after all,” she cried, 
“ and yet—— Oh, my God! I fear, I fear it must be true ; and if it is, 
I must leave my home, my name, my father, grandfather, Summer- 
lands, and become poor, dependent Dorothy Neil. Oh, it is cruel— 
cruel !”’ 


And overcome with misery, Sylvia fiung herself weeping upon her 
bed. 


“But it must be proved.” She started up. ‘‘Grandpapa shall 
know all ; and then it must be proved.” 
VoL, xvwu. No. 210, 94 


618 - The Irish Monthly. 


And without a thought as to her tear-stained face and tumbled 
hair, Sylvia rushed from her room, and entering the library flung her 
arms round her grandfather’s neck, and there, pressed close to is 
heart, she sobbed out the whole sad story. 

‘I do not believe one word of this,” he cried indignantly, when 
she had finished, “not for an instant. It is nonsense, a gross lie 
invented.”’ 

“ But, grandpapa, you forget who tells the story-—Dora.” 

He paled slightly. . 

“True, dearest. Dora is too good, too sweet, too——But, my 
love, I cannot, I will not believe it.” 

‘‘Alas!’’ she said mournfully, ‘itis not enough to say that we 
do not believe it. Either it is true or false. But to prove one or the 
other we must make inquiries, find out everything we can, and have it 
settled finally at once.” | 

“You are right, darling. It must not be said that we were afraid 
to face the truth. A story like this is sure to get noised abroad, 
sooner or later. So at the very first we must stamp it as false.” 

‘Yes, but how, grandpapa ?”’ 

“é You shall see, pet.” He rang the bell. ‘And now do not weep 
any more, sweet Sylvia. We shall soon learn without doubt.that this 
story is an absurd fabrication.” 

The footman appeared at the door. 

‘¢Send Anne Dane here, at once,” said Sir Eustace. 

‘‘Ah! you are going to question her,” cried 1 Sylvia. “ But Anne 
is unsatisfactory, grandpapa. She —” 

“Tí you please, Sir Eustace,” said the servant coming into the 
room again, ‘‘ Anne Dane is not in the house.” 

é“ Not in the house ?” 

‘No, Sir Eustace.” 

‘Have you looked in her room, John?” asked Sylvia. ‘She 
must be there.” 

“No, Miss, she is not.” 

‘She cannot be far off,” cried his young mistress impatiently. 
“ T saw her in Miss Neil’s room about an hour and half ago.” 

‘Yes, Miss. But she went away since then.” 

Sylvia sprang to her feet. 

“Went, away? Do you mean to say that she has left Summer- 
lands? ” 

“Yes, Miss Atherstone. About an hour ago one of the housemaids 
met her going down the back-stairs with a carpet-bag in her hand. 
She was surprised, as she knew Anne had only just arrived. So she 
asked her where she was going. She seemed angry, and would not 








A Striking Contrast. 619 


answer at first, but passed on. Then she suddenly turned back and 
said, ‘I am going for a long holiday. Miss Sylvia does not want me 
at present, so I am going for a holiday.’ And she went on in a great 
hurry.” 

“That will do, John, you may go.” 

Sir Eustace spoke calmly. There was not a tremor in his voice. 
But he was very pale. And as the servant withdrew he sank back in 
his chair, with a deep groan. 

A great terror had entered his mind. This woman’s flight looked 
like guilt, and the horrible thought that this might after all be true 
forced itself upon him, notwithstanding his ardent longing to believe 
the contrary. 

‘“‘Grandpapa,”’ cried Sylvia, in a tone of anguish. “Oh, my 
darling, I see you think asI do. Anne has run away, because— 
because she dared not face the truth. Dora’s story is true, and I am 
not your granddaughter, not Sylvia Atherstone after all.” 

Sir Eustace took her in his arms, and pressing her to his heart, 
kissed her long and passionately. — 

“You are my child, my daughter, my darling,” he cried. 
‘‘ Nothing can change our love, Sylvia, after these long years. And 
even shauld they prove that you are not my son’s daughter, what 
matter? You will only be mine all the more. The child of my old 
age, my own sweet Sylvia.” 

‘‘Nothing could change our love. Oh, no,” she answered, 
clinging to him. “ But I should then have no right to that name, no 
right to callyou grandpapa. In your house, where I have reigned 
as mistress, I should have no right to remain. If Dora is your grand- 
daughter, she must take my place.”’ 

“ My darling, such a change must never be allowed,” he cried 
fiercely. ‘‘You are my granddaughter, I will have no other. I 
absolutely refuse to believe this story. Let these girls prove it if 
they can.” 

“ Justice must be done, grandpapa. I could not be happy or 
enjoy my life of luxury as mistress of your house unless I felt 
perfectly certain that I had a right to do so.” 

“You have that right. I give it to you. No one shall take it 
from you whilst I live. It is not likely that I am going to depose 
you, my beautiful darling, for the sake of a pale-faced, fair-haired 
girl, who chooses to spring up without any proof and say that she is 
my son’s daughter. Oh, no, Sylvia, the thing is impossible,” 

‘“‘T wish it were, dear. But when one comes to think of it, there 
is strong evidence in favour of this story. Do you remember, grand- 
papa, how my father always spoke of his wife as fair? How,he 


620 ' The Ivish Monthly. 


mentioned frequently the miniature that his child wore round her 
neck, and how he mourned that it had been lost the night the Cimbria 
was lost ?” 

“Yes, but what has this got to do with this story?” 

“Much. Dora is fair, and round her neck she wears the 
miniature of a beautiful fair woman, her mother. The resemblance 
between Dora and the portrait is striking.” 

“ But Mrs. Neil may have been fair. Because my son’s wife was 
fair it does not follow that the portrait of any golden-haired woman 
should be thought to be her likeness. That Dora should wear a 
miniature of her mother, given to her by her father, is a coincidence, 
and one that has given Madge apparently a strong, a rather startling 
proof: But, of course, you had told them about the one lost from 
your neck on that miserable night? And so, perhaps, suggested the 
whole story.” 

é“ Yes. Ihave often talked about it to Dora, and examined hers. 
It is lovely, and was done in England before her mother’s marriage, 
I think. But indeed, grandpapa, that did not make the girls invent 
this story, I am sure.” 

“Tt is hard to say—very hard.” 

“I cannot believe them capable of doing anything so cruel, 
merely to torment and annoy us. We have always been kind to 
them. You have been extraordinarily generous, and they both love 
you dearly. Dora has been my dearest friend, and I cannot think 
that she would turn round maliciously and destroy my peace. She 
believes this story to be true, I am positive, whether it is or not. And 
you must remember that she did not tell it to me or to you, but 
believing herself alone with Anne Dane, she charged her with 
deceiving you and betraying her trust.” 

“You argue well, dearest. One would think you wished to prove 
them right.” 

“God knows I don’t,” she cried with streaming eyes. ‘‘It would 
be, indeed, a. terrible discovery to find that I was only poor Dorothy 
Neil. 1, who was so proud of my position, my name, to become a 
nobody, a dependent. Oh, grandpapa, grandpapa, I could not bear 
it.” 

“Nor I, my love. Such a discovery would kill me.” 

After this they both relapsed into silence. Their hearts were too 
full for words. Sylvia sat on the floor, her head upon her grand- 
father’s knee, weeping bitterly. His hand was laid caressingly on the 
bright, chestnut hair, and his eyes were fixed upon the sorrowing girl 
with look of intense sympathy and affection. 

The door opened, and a footman entered. 





A Striking Contrast. 621 


“ A telegram, Sir Eustace.” 

The old man took the envelope from the salver, and laid it beside 
him on the table. 

“ Ia there no answer, Sir Eustace ? ” 

“No, you may go.” 

John bowed. And as he left the room, he wondered greatly. His 
master seemed strange, did not even open his telegram. And Miss 
Atherstone was weeping. He was sure of that. What could it all 
mean? He must consult his friends. So off he hurried to discuss the 
matter in the servants’ hall. 

Meanwhile Sir Eustace did not look at the telegram, and seemed 
to have forgotten its existence. He and Sylvia sat on as before, 
their heads bent forward in sorrow; their minds full of the one 
terrible thought. 

But presently the girl raised her eyes, heavy with weeping, and 
seeing the grief in her grandfather’s whole look and bearing, her 
conscience smote her. 

“Were I more cheerful, did I take this trial in a proper spirit, 
he would not feel it so bitterly,’”’ she reflected. “I am selfishin my 
sorrow, and by my conduct increase his agony. But I must rouse 
myself, and do what I can to distract his thoughts,” 

Then she rose to her feet, and looking at the clock on the mantel- 
piece, uttered an exclamation of surprise. 

“Why, grandpapa, it is time to dress for dinner. I had no idea 
it was 80 late. Come, dearest, try and forget this unpleasant busiuess 
for the present. Treat it as a nightmare. I am determined to do so.” 

Sir Eustace groaned and shook his head. 

“Oh, yes, you can. You must. And I declare,” she cried 
catching sight of the yellow-backed envelope, ‘here is an unopened 
telegram. My dear grandpapa, this may be an important message 
from Anne Dane.” 

“What, my child, if itwere. Let me see.” And with trembling 
fingers he seized the envelope, and tore it open. 

No,” he said regretfully, “it is not from Anne. But,” as his 
eyes fell upon the signature, “ it is from your father, Sylvia—my son, 
George. My poor George to return at sucha moment! To find after 
all these years that we have been deceived. That our darling is not— 
good heavens! it is too terrible to think of.” And bowing his head 
upon his hands he sobbed aloud. 

Sylvia did not speak. Her colour went andcame. The expressions 
of her face were varied. She seemed doubtful, saddened by her great 
trouble, yet pleased to hear of her father’s return, anxious to comfort 
the old man, but fearful lest her words should increase his 
sorrow. 


622 The Irish Monthly. 


“Well,” he said, looking up, ‘‘ have you nothing to say, child ? 
Are you not appaled at the thought of your father’s disappointment ? ”' 
‘‘Grandpapa,” she answered gravely, “if your son is my father, 
there will be no disappointment. And if he is proved to be Dora’s, it 
can make little difference to him.” 

** Sylvia!’ His voice was full of reproach. 

“Well, dear, what I say is true. To you—to me, the truth of 
this story is important. But to George Atherstone it will make no 
difference, one way or the other. Seventeen years ago he parted from 
his child, an infant, scarcely able to lisp the word father. That baby 
has grown up away from him, cared for by others, loved by others. 
Then what is she to him but aname? What can it matter whether 
she bo dark or fair, whether Dora or I bear that name? Whichever 
is presented to him he will take to his heart, and love as his 
Caughter.” 

“You speak bitterly, Sylvia. Surely my son must feel more 
affection than you seem to think for his own child?” 

é“ I did not wish to speak bitterly, grandpapa. But only to make 
you see things in their proper light,” she said gently. ‘‘ When does 
he come home?” 

“The day after to-morrow. He arrived in London this morning, 
just in time to find us gone. He will travel down here on 
Wednesday.” 

“Very well. We shall be ready to receive him and welcome him. 
And now, grandpapa, I have made up my mind as to what is tu 
happen. My father, your son, shall decide my fate. He shall 
declare which is his child, Dora or I.” 

“But my darling, think. He has not seen you for seventeen 
years, not even your photograph. All were lost—strangely lost. So 
how can he decide ?”’ 

é“ Easily. Ifthe miniature that Dora wears is the portrait of his 
wife, he will recognize it. If it is not, our doubts shall be set at rest 
for ever. For Dora has always told me it was the likeness of her 
mother.” 

“Your plan seems to me a little wild, a little vague, dearest. 
However, I suppose I must submit to your will. But, remember, 
whatever turns up, you are always Sylvia, my best beloved child. 
Nothing but death shall separate us two, not even marriage, my 
pretty pet.” 

“No, grandpapa,” she said smiling and blushing, “not even 
marriage. Paul will be the best and most devoted of sons.” 

“God bless you, darling, and now leave me alone. I have some 
work to do, that may keep me far into the night.” 





A Striking Contrast. - 028 


“ But your dinner, grandpapa? Won’t you come to dinner?” 

“ No, dearest ; I have no appetite. Nor have you, Í fancy ; dinner 
would be a farce. Take something light and go to bed.” 

“ Very well, grandpapa. Good night.” He drew her head upon 
his breast and held it there for some minutes. 

‘‘Good-night, my darling, and do not fret. Whatever happens, our 
love is strong. So long as we have one another, the rest of the world 
is of but small value, in my eyes.” 

And then with a loving kiss he let her go. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 
SIR EUSTACE IS FORCED TO BELIEVE. 


When Madge arrived at Summerlands the next evening, she was 
surprised to learn that, notwithstanding all the precautions that had 
been taken by her and Dora, the true story of the shipwreck had 
leaked out. The news filled her with joy. The dream of her life 
was now certain to be realised. For years she had hoped and planned 
for the restoration of her adopted sister to her proper position in the 
world. But lately this seemed impossible. There were so many strong 
reasons for keeping the true state of affairs a secret. The girl’s own 
actions and wishes had made it necesssary to do so. When lo! 
without intending it, she herself had revealed all; and the burden of 
proving her right to the name of Atherstone was taken off Madge’s 
shoulders. 

To Dora the thought of becoming the rich Miss Atherstone gave 
little pleasure. She could not free herself from a sense of guilt, in 
having stolen into Summerlands as a friend, and meanly disturbed the 
peace and happiness of her kind benefactor. 

Sir Eustace she had not seen since the terrible revelation had been 
made known to him, and she could not but feel that through it she 
had lost his affection for ever. This pained her deeply, for she loved 
the old man, and had hoped to become his granddaughter in reality as 
well as in name. 

Sylvia proved herself a marvel of goodness. She came tosee Dora 
frequently, tempted her to eat by sending every dainty she could 
think of, talked brightly of the marked improvement in the girl’s 
health, and the good the air of Summerlands was likely to do her. 
But to the unhappy scene of the evening before she never alluded. 
She was kind as ever, taking an affectionate interest in her guest, and 
providing in every way for hercomfort. But, nevertheless, there was 


624 The Irwh Monthly. 


a difference, an indescribable something in her manner, that grieved 
poor sensitive Dora and caused her great sorrow. 

Madge did her best to console her, telling her that it was but 
natural. Sylvia was only human, and could not help feeling such a 
threatened change in her life intensely. 

But Dora refused to be comforted, and Madge soon found it 
impossible to rouse her drooping spirits. 

Late that evening Sir Eustace sent for Madge, and they remained 
closeted together for some time. 

During this interview Dora was restless and excited. She could 
not lie still upon her sofa, but paced hurriedly up and down her 
room. 

“Well,” she cried breathlessly as Madge returned, ‘‘does he 
hate us? Does he detest my name?” 

“No, dear,” said Madge soothingly, and drawing the girl down 
upon the couch beside her. “He is sad—pained. But he is too 
noble to hate you for what you cannot help.” 

“ Does he believe us, then ? ” 

“No. He refuses to believe my story—says I was driven mad by 
the terror of tbe shipwreck, and imagined that you were Sylvia and 
Sylvia you.” 

‘‘Such nonsense! But what does he think of Anne Dane’s 
flight ?”’ 

‘That has shaken his faith a little, I can see. But he will not 
acknowledge it. He says she was offended by Sylvia’s manner and 
so on.” 

é Then what is to be done? We cannot stay here now,” said 
Dora sadly. ‘And we can no longer live upon Sir Eustace Ather- 
stone’s bounty. "We must return to our poverty, Madge.” 

“I think not, darling.” 

Dora looked at her in amazement. Madge spoke so brightly, 
her face wore such an expression of happy content, that the girl was 
filled with wonder. 

“ TI do not understand you,” she said with some irritation. ‘ You 
used to have spirit, a feeling of pride. But now ”— - 

Madge laughed softly, and kissed the pouting lips. 

“My darling, you must not be cross with your poor Madge. And 
do not blame her till you know all. We, at least you, shall not go 
back to poverty, but to a life of comfort and luxury with your 
father,” 

“My father? Oh, Madge” 

“Yes, darling, with your father. Sir Eustace does not believe our 
story, does not wish to believe it, poor old man. But he has 





A Striking Contrast. 625 


consented, at Sylvia’s suggestion, that your father ig to decide the 
matter. So no wonder I look happy. No wonder I say you shall not 
return to poverty. He is to reach this to-morrow, and then very soon 
my great ambition will be achieved, and you, my pet, will be restored 

to your proper place in the world.” | 

“Yes. But he may not know me.” 

“Not know you! Of course he will know you. You are little 
changed, Dora, and the living image of his dead wife,” 

é“ Poor Sylvia,” murmured Dora. ‘I wish my happiness had not 
to be bought at the terrible price of her suffering.” 

é“ Do not fret about her, dearest. She will feel the change at first, 
of course. But she has a fine, a noble character, and will soon 
recover from the blow. Sir Eustace loves her tenderly. He is rich, 
and will treat ker in every respect as his adopted daughter.” 

é lí I thought that, I could really feel happy,’’ said Dora smiling, 
‘“‘and forgive myself for having in an unguarded moment betrayed 
this secret.’ 

“ Dearest, sooner or later this secret must have been told. Lady 
Ashfield was most anxious to have it announced to the world. No one 
on earth could have persuaded her to keep it quiet, had her son 
persisted in wishing to marry you.” 

“And he would surely have done that,” said Dora blushing 
deeply. ‘‘ He is too true, and loves me too dearly, not to persist.” 

‘Yes, darling, I know. Therefore, you need not blame yourself. 
No matter what you had done or said, this secret was certain to have 
slipped out. And I am thankful that it has done so now, just as your 
father comes home.” 

“ But if he should not know me? If he should think Sylvia is his 
daughter ?”’ 

‘‘Then, dearest,” said Madge decidedly, ‘‘I would believe Sir 
Eustace’s version of the story, and say that the terror of the wreck 
had turned my brain.” 

The next morning Madge dressed Dora in a pretty pale blue 
- gown, arranged her golden hair in simple coils round her little head, 
and wrapped a soft white shawl about her shoulders. 

The two girls sat together in Dora’s sittingroom, working and 
reading, and no one but Désirée came to them through the day. 

At four o’clock Madge rose up and laid aside her embroidery. 

‘Tt is time, darling,” she said; and raising Dora from the sofa, 
she drew her arm within her own and led her slowly down the broad 
oak staircase to the library. 

Dora trembled in every limb, and looked nervously around as she 
entered the room. But there was no one there, and she breathed 
more freely. 


626 The Irish Monthly. 


“I am glad they have not come yet. Oh, Madge, I feel so 
frightened, so —— 

‘“‘My pet, you must be courageous,’ ” said Madge, as she made her 
sit down in a large arm-chair. ‘There is nothing to alarm you. It 
will all go off very quietly.” | 

‘‘T hope so. I hope so.” And Dora lay back with a sigh. 

Presently the door opened, and Sir Eustace came in with Sylvia 
leaning on his arm. She was dressed in pure white, a bunch of 
violets at her breast. She looked very beautiful, tall, erect and 
stately, and as Dora looked at her she felt her heart sink low within 
her. 

“Who,” she thought, ‘‘could look at us two and not choose her? 
So, perhaps, after all this meeting may bé a failure for me, and 
Sylvia will be left as she is. I could almost hope so—only Sir 
Kustace.”’ , 

He turned as she called him, and looked at her inquiringly. Dora 
started ; she was shocked at the change in him. He was pale and 
worn ; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his mouth was set in stern, 
harsh lines. 

“Forgive me,” faltered Dora, “ oh, say you forgive me.’ 

Sylvia stooped and kissed her; then looking up sppealingly at 
Sir Eustace. 

é“ Forgive her, grandpapa,” she whispered. ‘‘ Speak to her kindly. 
It is not her fault.”’ 

“ My dear, of course. I understand perfectly,” he replied. “I 
have nothing to forgive.” And he turned away abruptly. 

Dora sighed heavily, and grasped Madge’s hand tightly within 
her own. Here was a friend who would never desert her, no matter 
what her fate might be. Madge pressed her lips upon the little thin 
fingers, and said in a low voice, ‘‘ Courage.” 

Sylvia looked at them sadly, and followed Sir Eustace to » the other 
side of the room. 

An unpleasant silence fell upon them all, broken only by the 
ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece. Sir Eustace had expected 
his son to arrive at half-past four, but it was now five, and he had not 
yet appeared. The old man grew impatient. This waitipg was 
terrible. Would he never come? 

But, suddenly, the sound of carriage wheels was heard in the 
avenue. Sylvia grew pale as marble, and leaned heavily against the 
book-case. Dora looked at her longingly, and fell back trembling 
in her chair. 

‘‘ This ordeal will soon be at an end, my sweet Sylvia,” whispered 
Sir Eustace, with quivering lips. “In a few moments you will be in 
your father’s arms.’’ 





A Striking Contrast. 627 


And he tried to walk steadily forward as he heard the hall-door 
opening to admit hisson. But his anxiety was too great, his feeling 
too intense; and, covering his face with his hands, he sank helpless 
on the sofa. 

Madge alone was cool and self-possessed. She stood by Dora’s 
side, a look of triumphant happiness in her eyes, her cheeks glowing 
with the flush of certain victory. 

The sound of hurrying feet; the opening and shutting of doors; 
a cheerful voice, loud, clear, and ringing, falls on their ears, and 
George Atherstone, looking much aged since we last saw him, and 
somewhat bronzed from his long sea-journey, enters the library and 
grasped his father by the hand. 

‘‘Thank God, I am home safe at last,” he cries, heartily. ‘‘ It is 
a lifetime since we parted, father. I am glad to see you once more ; 
and my daughter? Shall I know her, I wonder, the little one that I 
have deserted so long?” 

He looks anxiously round the room. He passes, without recog- 
nition, beautiful Sylvia, with her rich chestnut hair, and dark lustrous 
eyes, glances at Madge, and gives a slight start. She puzzles him ; 
reminds him of someone. But it is not her he seeks. At last he 
sees Dora, white and fragile, looking up at him with a yearning, 
pleading expression, and, in an instant, he is by her side. 

“ My sweet child! My poor deserted bairn,” he sobs, taking her 
in his arms and kissing her over and over again. “ Oh, my Sylvia, how 
like your mother you are; how like my dear, dear wife!” 

é“ Yeg,” said the girl, softly; ‘‘so Madge always told me. And, 
see, I have never parted from this; I have always kept it, father.” 

And, drawing out the miniature of her dead mother, she held it 
towards him. 

é“ My darling!” he kissed her again, and gazed at her fondly. 
“I am glad you have it still, for it is like her—and you. But I 
thought it was lost—lost in that terrible wreck?” 

“ No, no, it was always round my neck.” 

“Then I must have misunderstood my father’s letters,” he said, 
looking puzzled, “ for I thought he told me—however, that does not 
matter now. And you,” giving his hand to Madge, “are my dear 
old friend’s eldest daughter, Madge? And this,” glancing with ad- 
miration at Sylvia, “is, I am sure, the beautiful baby, Dora? Well, 
my dear, I am more glad than I can say to find that you were not 
drowned, as was at first supposed. Thank God you too escaped that 
fearful death.” Then he turned again to his child and examined her 
closely, critically. He touched the golden hair, lingered admiringly 
on the deep, pathetic blue eyes, the sweet tender mouth and alabaster 


628 The Irish Monthly. 


cheek. But as his gaze wandered over her figure, and he began to 
realise that she was weak and an invalid, he uttered a faint cry, and 
looked reproachfully at his father. 

é“ You told me she was tall and strong,” he cried in a loud tone of 
- keen disappointment. ‘You described her as——, well as you might 
have described Dorothy Neil there. You never hinted that she was 
small and fragile, a poor delicate little creature. Why did you not 
prepare me for such a trouble? Why did you deceive me so 
terribly? My darling is beautiful. But, alas! quite different from 
the splendid girl you led me to suppose. What was your motive, 
father? Why have you so cruelly deceived me?” 

Sir Eustace stared at his son, blankly. Then, opening his lips and 
waving his hand, he murmured, ‘ Sylvia.” 

But his voice was inaudible; and George knew not what he meant. 

“George,” he whispered hoarsely, “ I” 

Then he staggered forward, uttered a deep groan, and fell heavily 
to the ground. 

“ Grandpapa, grandpapa,”’ cried Sylvia, flinging herself on her 
knees by his side. ‘‘Oh, my poor tender-hearted darling, this crue! 
shock has killed you.” 

But George Atherstone thrust her away, and with the help of the 
servants carried his father up the stairs, and laid him on the bed in 
his own room. 

“ Had I known my return, after all these years, would have caused 
you such a shock, I would have stayed away for ever,” he murmured, 
as he bent tenderly over the unconscious man. ‘‘ But I never thought 
such a thing possible—never.” 

Then pressing a loving kiss upon the marble brow, he stole away, 
leaving Sir Eustace to the doctors. 





CHAPTER XXVII. 
SYLVIA GIVES WAY TO DESPAIR. 


Sir Eustace Atherstone never spoke again. 

His heart had been seriously affected for some time, said the great 
physician, who had been his medical attendant for years. The joy at 
seeing his son again had doubtless been too much for him, and so he 
had died. 

The whole household was plunged in deep grief by this sudden 
death. For Sir Eustace was beloved by all. He had always been a 
kind master, not only just, but unusually generous, to all those who 
served him. 








A Striking Contrast. 629 


To George Atherstone his death was bitter disappointment, and 
changed his home-coming from the happy time he had always luoked 
forward to into one of misery and pain. So he wandered disconsolately 
through the big house, or sat alone in the library trying to read. He 
had not a single friend from outside to comfort and condole with him, 
and everyone within the place was absorbed in grief. 

His little daughter lay upon a bed of pain, mind and body torn 
with anguish, at the horrible recollection of that last terrible scene. 
Madge watched by her bedside night and day; and the other girl was 
rarely to be seen. 

“The other girl,” thus he called Sylvia, the beautiful idol, so 
fondly loved and carefully guarded by his dead father. But of this 
he knew nothing. Nota whisper of such a thing had reached his 
ears. And he had not the faintest idea that anything but the emotion, 
caused by seeing him had helped to hasten the old man’s death. He 
took his place as master of the house. All orders were given by him ; 
and no one thought of troubling the afflicted girl who had so long 
acted as mistress of the establishment. The servants did not apply to 
her, as they feared to disturb her in her grief. He did not consult 
her, for the simple reason that he looked upon her as a mere visitor 
without right or power to direct him. 

And yet, as he stole into his father’s room from time to time to 
gaze on that noble countenance, so calm and placid in death, it did 
strike him as strange that this girl was almost always to be found by 
the old man’s bed. It annoyed him extremely to find her thus 
taking the place of a loving daughter or an affectionate wife. 

The afternoon before the funeral he went upstairs, carrying a cross 
of pure white flowers to lay upon the dead man’s breast. As he 
entered the room the sound of someone sobbing fell upon his ear, and 
then once more he beheld this girl kneeling by the bed. Her whole 
attitude was one of despair. Her head was bent, her arms flung 
forward, and her slight frame was shaken with convulsive weeping. 

George Atherstone laid his cross reverently upon his father’s 
breast, then iooked wonderingly at the sorrowing girl. 

é“ Miss Neil,” he said gently. , 

She started as though she had been stung; and a cry escaped 
her lips. : 

éI am sorry I frightened you,” he said. “I thought you heard 
me enter. But I must request you to come away. The funeral is 
to-morrow. There are last offices to perform. The men are coming; 
you must not stay.” 

She looked at him in a dazed, uncertain manner, then suddenly 
sprang to her feet, pressed her lips passionately on those of the dead 
man, and staggered blindly from the room. 


630 The Irish Monthly. 


Poor Sylvia! for so we shall still call her, although he now 
knows she has no right to the name, turned away from the side of 
him who had been father, grandfather, and friend; shut out from 
the sight of him she loved. So well her heart was like to burst with 
anguish. On that dreadful evening when he had fallen dead at her 
feet, she had felt wild with grief at the thought that he was gone; that 
never more should she hear his voice, or receive his caresses. From 
that hour her mind had been absorbed in the one unhappy truth— 
that he was dead, passed away for ever. 

But now, as George Atherstone coldly bade her leave her place by 
her beloved dead, calling her by that name that was henceforth to be 
her own, she remembered suddenly all the misfortunes that had come 


upon her. 
‘‘He is gone,” she wailed, pacing up and down her room in 
frantic despair. ‘Gone without a word, leaving me a pauper, 


dependent upon George Atherstone or Madge. Oh, I cannot bear the 
thought, I cannot bear the thought. This house that was to have been 
my own, those grounds, that park, all gone, and I, the once courted and 
admired heiress, am now poor, helpless Dorothy Neil. But nothing 
will induce me to be a burden on anyone. I must look for work, go 
out as a governess, do anything rather than live in a state of depen- 
dence. Oh, my poor Paul, had you been in a better position, had 
you worked during all those years wasted infolly and idleness, you 
might have helped me now. But, alas! that is impossible. A 
penniless wife would be but a clog upon you, prevent yuu getting on. 
' As the rich Miss Atherstone, I was not allowed to marry yan; as 
Dorothy Neil, without a penny of her own, I must refuse to 
do so. Oh, grandpapa, grandpapa, why did you leave me? From 
your hands I’d have taken anything. I’d have been your child, your 
companion. But now this place, these walls stifle me. I must go 
out, and in the fresh air, away from the sight of this dear, dear home, 
I may think more calmly, make up my mind to something.” 

It was a pleasant day for a walk. There was the softness of 
spring in the fresh, sweet air, and as Sylvia passed down the avenue 
she saw snowdrops and crocuses lifting their delicate blossoms above 
the rich brown moss that grew so luxuriantly under the fine old 
beech trees. Primroses and violets were blooming in all the hedge- 
rows. The woods had a slender tinge of green from their dainty 
sprouting leaves, and the far off fields, full of the fast-growing crops, 
looked fresh and brilliant under the deep blue sky. 

“ All so peaceful, so beautiful,” murmured the girl sadly, ‘and 
yet, he, the master of all, is gone—never to return. The beauty, the 
unchanging peace seems cruel, and fills me with pain.” 











A Striking Contrast. 63L 


And she hurried along, anxious to shut out from her sight, if 

ssible, all the varied charms of the lovely landscape. 

At last she came on a wide. wild common, and here the view 
suited her present mood to perfection. The heather, which she had 
seen in the autumn rich in deep purple hues, was now brown, without . 
leaf or flower. The bracken, then so green and soft, lay withered and 
dry upon the ground, looking as though it could never raise its head 
again in life and happiness to heaven. 

“It is like my heart,” she thought, ‘‘ crushed and dead, only it 
may revive with the summer sun, the soft spring rains. My heart, 
alas, never, never can,” and she shivered as a cold blast of wind came 
sweeping across the moorland. | 

She drew her cloak more closely round her, and wandered in 
amongst the withered heather and dry bracken. She felt utterly 
‘dreary and forsaken, and went on aimlessly, heedless of time or 
distance. The brightness of the day passed off; the sky became a 
leaden grey, the wind sharp and easterly. 

As Sylvia crossed the heath, and came out again upon the road, 
she stood for a moment in doubt. She had come a long way from 
Summerlands, and was not sure which turn to take. She glanced 
anxiously about to see if there was anyone near who could direct her, 
but not a creature was visible. A grey mist had come down and hid 
the distance, and she knew not what to do. 

Suddenly footsteps were heard approaching, and a young man 
came towards her along the road. He was walking briskly, his head 
thrown well back, stepping out triumphantly to Mendelssohn’s Wedding 
March, which he hummed to himself in a rich, clear baritone. 

Sylvia’s heart gave a great plunge, and she felt herself trembling 
from head to foot. 

‘Ts it possible—can it be? Paul!” 

He looked round ; he was bewildered, astonished. It was Sylvia’s 
voice; and yet, he was many miles from Summerlands. How 
could she be there? The song died upon his lips; he turned 
wonderingly towards the common. 

“How come you to be here, Paul ? Why are you not in London ?”’ 
she asked. 

And, as the slim figure came forward through the mist, he knew 
that his ears had not deceived him, and that it was really Sylvia who 
had spoken. 

“ Because—oh, my dearest—my time of probation is over; I have 
earned the right to tell you how dearly I love you.” 

And, catching her hand, he held it tightly clasped within his own. 

“Thank God,” murmured Sylvia, ‘‘I am not without a (friend. 
There is still some one to love me in this sad, sad world.” 


632 The Irish Monthly. 


He gazed at her in surprise and alarm. 
“ Sylvia,” he said, reproachfully, “you should not speak thus ; 
you, the adored, the idolised. Oh, my love, if it were not for 
. my strong belief in your affection and truth, I would not dare to offer 
you my poor heart, my home, so unworthy of you. But you look ill, 
dearest—what is wrong? Why are you so far from Summerlands ? 
Does Sir Eustace know ”’?—— 
“He is gone, Paul. My dear, kind grandfather is gone.” 
“ Gone— dead? ”’ 
é“ Yes, dead. He fell suddenly at my feet, and never spoke 
again.” 
“ Good God! how terrible.” 
Paul raised his hat reverently, and drew Sylvia’s hand within his 
arm. 
“Terrible indeed !!” The girl shivered. ‘So no wonder I am ill 
and weary.”’ 

‘No wonder, dearest. but come home now.” 

‘“‘T have no home.” 

“Sylvia? Has this death turned your brain? Till we marry, 
which, thank God, need not be long now, the house which was your 
grandfather’s must be your home. Since your father has not yet 
returned ”—— 

“I have no father, no grandfather, no home,” she cried, passion- 
ately. “I am a pauper, a nobody. All these years I have been an 
impostor, deceiving you, the world, everyone. Oh, Paul, why was I 
born ?” 

“My own love,” he said, soothingly, “you were born for much 
yood—to perfect my life, and make me happy, and—and, perhaps, 
great. Your love has encouraged me, Sylvia, fired my ambition, filled 
me with good and noble thoughts. That, alone, is something to live 
for. But I do not understand you; something strange must have 
happened to make you seem so wild—so distracted.” 

‘Something. Oh, Paul, would that I could wake and find it alla 
dream—a horrible nightmare. But listen.” 

And, sinking down upon the heather, she poured forth the whole 
sad story from beginning to end. ~ 

“ Well, my darling,” he said when she had finished, ‘‘I am sorry 
for your sake, deeply grieved that you should have such a disappoint- 
ment as this must be; but, after all, what does it matter? You loved 
Sir Eustace, and spent many happy years in his company; he loved 
you dearly, devotedly, and you have a right to mourn for him now 
that he is dead. But this discovery, this secret of your birth, is not 
worth a sigh. Mr. Neil was a man of good family; he was upright 
and honest, though unfortunate in his affairs. His wife was a lady. 


A. 





A. Striking Contrast. 633 


All this I know for a fact, and you need never be ashamed of being 
their daughter.” 

‘But, Paul,” she cried impatiently, “can you not see the terrible 
difference this makes in my life? I am now a pauper, without money, 
without friends.” 

“ My dearest,” he answered joyfully, “you are now what I often 
selfishly, I admit, wished you to be, that I might win you fearlessly 
without regret. I am not rich, Sylvia, but I am going on. My 
picture was accepted at the Academy, and sold before it left my 
studio. Iam full of strength and hope. And if the home I offer 
you is inferior in many ways to Summerlands, it will be full of love 
and tender care. Speak, darling, will you be my wife ?” 

Sylvia raised her head. The look of wild despair had vanished. 
Her face shone with renewed happiness as her eyes met his, full of 
trusting love and gratitude. 

“ Yes, Paul, when you please to marry me.” 

“My own,” he murmured, drawing her to his side, ‘‘ that shall be 
as soon as you think fit. I obtained Sir Eustace’s consent at our last 
interview. His portrait was most successful, and he said that if my 
principal picture were accepted at the Academy I might come down to 
Summerlands and ask you to marry me. This makes me very happy 
now.” 

‘Yes. But, oh, that he were here to bless our marriage! ” 

‘‘T wish he were, dearest. But we must not indulge in vain 
regrets. Come now, we must go on to Summerlands. It is late and 
you are very cold.” | 

“ He is to be buried to-morrow, Paul,” she cried with a sob. ‘Let 
us go together and take a last look at his dear face.” 

“ Yes,” said Paul. “ Come.” 

And drawing her arm within his own he led her away. They 
walked on over the dreary moorland side by side. But neither spoke. 
Both kept silent by the strength of a deep, overpowering emotion. 

As they went up the avenue at Summerlands, they met George 
Atherstone. He stopped, and looking sadly at Sylvia, said : 

“I have heard your story from Madge. I am greatly pained, but 
trust that you will let me take my father’s place, and make your home 
with my daughter, who loves you very dearly.” 

Sylvia’s eyes were full of tears, and sobs choked her utterance. 
But she looked at him gratefully and put her hand in his. 

é“ I was rough—cold, perhaps,” he said. “ But my ignorance is 
my excuse. Pray do as you please. Make my house your home 
till” 

“Tall she becomes my wife,” said Paul stepping forward. ‘‘ Your 

Vou. xvin. No. 210, . 96 





634 The Irish Monthly. 


father, Sir Eustace, gave his consent to our union sometime before his 
death. He brought me up, educated me, and I loved him very 
‘ sincerely.” | 

“ Are you Paul Vyner?” 

“Yes. Your father’s adopted son.” 

“I am glad to see you. He mentioned you frequently in his 
letters. I hope you will stay here to-night. It is only right that you 
should assist at my father’s funeral to-morrow.” - 

‘‘Only -right, certainly. The last act of love I can pay my 
benefactor. And now may I see him once more upon earth ?” . 

“Yes. She who loved him so well, and mourns him so truly, will 
lead you to his eide.” 

Sylvia bowed, and passing on into the house, led Paul up the 
broad staircase to the dead man’s room. | 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 
WEDDING BELLS. 


But Sylvia had not been left the pauper she supposed. Sir 
Eustace had loved his darling far too well to leave her dependent 
upon any human being. Summerlands and a large sum of money in 
the funds had been left to his granddaughter in a will made many 
years before. But on hearing Madge’s story of the wreck, and 
finding that Anne Dane had taken flight, an awful doubt entered his 
mind ; and he remembered that if he died suddenly, as his doctor had 
frequently warned him he might do, and this girl were proved not to 
be his son’s child, she would be thrown penniless upon the world. He 
did not and would not believe that such a thing were possible. But 
he resolved to ensure the property to her, no matter what should 
happen. So on that sad evening, after dismissing the girl to rest, he 
appended a codicil to his will stating that it was to be hers whether 
she was Sylvia Atherstone or Dorothy Neil. This was duly witnessed 
and.signed, and Sylvia remained mistress of Summerlands. 

This great proof of his watchful love renewed the girl’s grief, 
and for months she was inconsolable. 

But as time and the summer sun restored the withered heather, 
and raised the drooping bracken on the moor, so it was with Sylvia’s 
sorrowing heart. 

For a year she wore heavy mourning for her beloved dead, and 
then as the roses bloomed and the birds sang joyous roulades through 
the shady woods at Summerlands, she at last listened to Paul’s 
earnest entreaties and consented to become his wife. 

For a long time after Sir Eustace Atherstone’s death Dora was 


A Striking Contrast. 635 


very ill. But Madge’s tender care and watchful nursing saved her 
once more, and she came slowly back to life. 

As soon as she was well enough to travel, her father wished to 
hurry her away with him to London. 

But she implored him to leave her at Summerlands. 

“I am so happy here, father. Pray let me stay where I am; 
‘London would stifle me.” | 

‘‘But this is not your home. You have no right to live with a 
stranger.” 

“A stranger! Sylvia a stranger! Oh, father, how can you say 
such a thing ?” 

‘¢ Sylvia, it is absurd to call her so. You are Sylvia, she is Dora.” 

“I know,” she answered, laughing. ‘But it is impossible to 
change our names now. I could never call her anything but Sylvia, 
no matter how much I tried.” 

“ But I really think you and Madge should come to London,” he 
urged. ‘‘ Whether she is Sylvia or Dora, you have no right to 
trespass too long on her hospitality.” ' 

‘““Madge will not come. Sylvia is her sister. We, alas! are 
nothing to her.” 

‘‘Madge not come,” he cried in consternation. “Why, you would 
be lost without her.” 

“Yes; and for that reason I must stay whereI am. Madge, 
Sylvia, and I want each other badly. You like to see the world, 
father—so go, and leave us in our seclusion.” 

“ But you must see the world, too, dear, and Madge.” 

The girl blushed brightly, and smiled as she answered : 

“I shall see the world soon, father, when I am a little stronger, 
with Ashfield.”’ 

- Ah, of course; but that is one reason why you should come to 
London. When you are buried here, that poor fellow nevers sees you.” 

‘Pardon me,” she said laughing; ‘that poor fellow, as you call 
him, has seen me frequently, and he is coming down next week with 
his mother to stay for a fortnight.” 

“Indeed? and Paul Vyner ?” 

‘‘ Paul is coming too. He has not been here since Christmas.” 

“ And this is March. Well, it seems to me you will all be very 
happy and comfortable. No one,” sighing, ‘ wants me, I’m afraid.” 

“ Oh, father! weall want you. Sylvia likes you to be here; and 
Madge——” 

! “Does she care?” he asked quickly. “Do you think Madge 
cares ?”’ 

‘‘T am sure she does. You were always a heroin her eyes, ever 
since that day when you left me on board the Cimbria.” 


636 The Irish Monthly. 


é“ Dear, faithful Madge. What a heart that girl has. How she 
worked and suffered for you,” | 

“ Yes. I love Madge very dearly.” 

Sir George Atherstone walked to the window, and looked out. Then, 
turning round, he said abruptly : 

‘Good-bye, my child. I will run up to London to-night, and 
come back here in a week with Ashfield and Paul Vyner.” 

Dora clapped her hands. 

“That will be charming. We'll all be happy then. That’s just 
what Sylvia would like you to do. And do you know, we all hope 
that we may coax her to say when she will marry Paul. Ashfield is 
growing impatient, and our marriage depends on Sylvia. We must 
be married on the same day.” 

““ But you are not strong enough.” 

“By June I might be,” she said, smiling and blushing, ‘ if 
Sylvia would only say yes.” 

And Sylvia did say “ Yes.” 

So, one glorious day in June, the two girls were married in the 
beautiful old church at Summerlands. Sir George Atherstone gave 
them both away; and it would be difficult to say which of the brides 
he admired most. 

é“ They are both charming in their own way,” he said to the 
Dowager Lady Ashfield, ‘‘and they certainly make a pretty 
contrast.” 

“Yes; but I have little doubt upon the subject,” answered that 
astute lady. “I always admired golden hair, and there is something 
altogether winning in your daughter’s sweet blue eyes.” 

“ Mrg. Vyner would have made a more striking peeress, however,” 
he said smiling. ‘‘ My child is, as you say, winning, but not com- 
manding.” 

é No; but she is Sir Eustace Atherstone’s granddaughter ; that is 
recommendation enough for me. I had resolved our families should 
be united years ago, so you may fancy how pleased I am to-day.”’ 

- - - - - “re 

Six months later Lord Ashfield and his bride passed through 
London, on their way to his place in Cornwall. 

Dora, for she was always Dora to her husband, was in radiant 
health and spirits. Happiness, change of air and scene, had worked 
wonders, and she now looked the perfection of youth and beauty. 

“ My dear,” she said to Lord Ashfield, the morning after their 
arrival, “I hope you will not object to leaving me alone for an hour . 
or go; you can go to your club or remain in your smoking-room. 
But—but Madge is coming, and I want to have her all to myself.” 

‘¢T am jealous of Madge. I really am, little wife.” 








A Striking Contraat. 637 


_ ** No, you are not. And off you go,” she cried, laughing. ‘‘I hear 
the bell, that is sure to be Madge.” 

‘“‘Tam a henpecked husband. There is no doubt about that. But 
since your willis my law, my fair tyrant, I hasten away.” 

As Lord Ashfield disappeared out of one door, the other opened, 
‘and Madge, smiling and happy, entered the room, and clasped Dora 
in her arms. 

‘‘My darling,” she said, holding her away, and gazing at her 
fondly, ‘ how beautiful you have grown, and how strong and straight.” 

“ Yes,” cried Dora, “is it not wonderful ? My poor back is now as 
firm as a rock. I do not require to lie about on sofas, as I used 
to do.” 

“Thank God for that. And are you happy, my pet?” 

“As happy as the day is long. My husband is the kindest—best. 
But,” blushing and dimpling, ‘‘ I need not indulge in raptures. You 
know what he is.” 

“Yes. I know well.” . 

“And you, my sweet Madge? Are you lonely? Do you not 
miss your little sister?” 

Madge blushed deeply and turned aside her head. 

“IT miss you, dearest. But I am not lonely.” 

“I am glad to hear that. Come and sit down and tell me what 
you do all day.” | 

Dora seated herself on the sofa, and Madge stood for a moment 
looking at her with trembling lips and changing colour. Then 
suddenly, she knelt beside her, and throwing her arms round her 
waist, said in a low voice: 

‘«In the old days, darling, you used sometimes call me your little 
mother. Would you, would you mind very much if you heard I was 
your mother—at least that ”— 

Dora looked at her wonderingly. Then, all at once, a light 
seemed to break in upon her, and before Madge could complete her 
sentence she realised what she meant. 

“ What,” she cried joyfully, “ have you—has father?” 

“He has,” said Sir George, who had slipped in behind his 
daughter unperceived. ‘‘ He has won the best, the truest little woman 
in the world for his wife,” and raising Madge from the ground he 
drew her gently towards him. 

‘‘Madge! Papa! I am so glad,” cried Dora, kissing them 
rapturously. ‘‘But why did you get married whilst we were away?” 

“ My dear,” he answered laughing, “if you choose to stop away 
for six months, you cannot expect us to await your pleasure, We had 
intended writing to tell you, but Sylvia advised ”—— 





638 The Irish Monthly. 


é“ Does Sylvia know?” | 

“Oh, yes. We were married from her house.” 

“From Summerlands ? ” 

“No; from her pretty house in town. Vyner did the father, and 
gave Madge away.” . 

“Well, I am so glad to see you married. I have hoped you 
would do-so ever since—well, since I knew you, papa. Has any 
other strange thing happened during my absence ?”’ 

é Anne Dane isdead. And before her death she wrote a full con- 
fession of the deception she had practised on my poor father. She 
deeply regretted it and begged forgiveness.”’ 

“ Poor creature,” said Dora. ‘I forgave her long ago.” 

“Dora, may I come in?” asked Lord Ashfield at the door. 
“You and Madge have been an age together.” 

“Yes. You may come in,” she answered gaily. ‘‘And now, not 
a word,” she whispered to her father. “ Let me tell him about your 
marriage.” 

But to her surprise her husband walked straight up to Madge, 
and calling her Lady Atherstone, congratulated her most heartily. 

“ Now, Ashfield, who told you?” asked Dora indignantly. 

“Here are the culprits,” he replied. “ Scold them, not me.” 

And throwing open the door, he called out laughingly, ‘‘ Come in, 
Mr. and Mrs. Vyner, and receive a severe punishment for revealing 
this wonderful secret.” 

And in another instant Sylvia, looking radiantly beautiful, entered 
the room leaning on her husband’s arm. 

“ This is the happiest moment of my life,” she said with shining 
eyes, as she glanced from Madge and Dora to the three stalwart 
husbands. ‘ We have all done exactly what I hoped we should do, 
and I am most blissfully content.” 

““ Yes, dear, and so am I,” cried Madge, “ though I confess I never. 
dared hope for the happy fate that is now mine. God has been very 
good to me.” 

‘‘And to me,” said Dora softly. ‘ But do you know, Sylvia,” she 
added roguishbly, ‘‘although you are taller, and, perhaps, just a little 
handsomer, you are not one atom straighter or stronger looking than 
Iam. We are not the striking contrast we used to be.”’ 

“ No, dearest, except in the colour of our hair and eyes. We are 
both well and happy. So, thank God, there is no longer the terrible 
contrast in our lives that there used to be in the days now happily 
gone by for ever ” 


THE END. 





639 


TO THE CHILDREN. 


DEAR! how soon you routed 
My fears for the hereafter, 
As round my tree you shouted 
With ghost-expelling laughter, 


That thrilled the leaves with pleasure. 


’Twas Hope’s kind age of plenty : 
She knew no stinted measure 
When I was one-and-twenty. 


You my ambition humbled 
To tracking crabs by bubbles, 

As o’er the rocks we stumbled, 
Forgetting all my troubles. 

That childish play should blind me! 
Like an o’erwhelming ocean 

My sorrow rose behind me— 
Who heeded not its motion. 


When next you gathered round me, 
Keen airs the branches quivered : 
Alas! my fate had found me— 
My tree a bolt had shivered. 
The great world’s soulless graces, 
Vain arts ! could I abide them ? 
To sunny hearts and faces 
I turned, my youth beside them. 


Dear, dear ! what happy folly 

Made me anew a baby! 
What brooding melancholy 

Was killed with laughter, maybe! 
To you my soul was grateful, 

Who taught me in such fashion 
Lo keep my memory faithful, 

And still my stubborn passion. 


You had such humour, wee things! 
And my strange ways increased it. 

You mind the day, from tea-things 
Of broken delft we feasted 





640 The Irish Monthly. 


In the hen-house deserted ? 
We warred not on religions, 
Nor party-cant asserted, 
That day among the pigeons. 
Ah, vanished years! .. . Could roving 
'Mid strange and glorious places 
Turn our poor hearts from loving 
The dear unchanging faces ? 
Could Time, who surely ample 
Must find the world’s broad highway, 
Turn from a dome to trample 
A violet in a by-way ? 


Ah, children dear, it warms me 
To find you grown no colder ; 
The while your budding charms me, 
Your heart grows never older. 
To me—while years will bring you 
Frank friends, and love in plenty— 
You'll still be—as I sing you: 
And I—as One-and-Twenty ! 


AN AUSTRALIAN’S NOTES AT WIESBADEN. 

A BRIGHT, beautiful garden, warm with sunshine, gay with 

flowers, and sheltered by noble avenues of beech and 
chestnut. A long, many-seated colonnade thronged with revellers, 
each with glass in hand, quaffing not “beakers of bright 
champagne,” but sipping or gulping with what courage they may 
the healing waters of the Kochbrunnen Spa as it comes up hissing 
and boiling from its subterraneous source. This is what may be 
seen from early morn to dewy eve during the Cur season at 
Wiesbaden. Soon after 6 a.m. strains of alluring music summon 
the sleepy guests from the neighbouring hotels, and then shame 
on the recreant who fails to put in an appearance at the Trink- 
halle. The only valid excuse which can be offered for absence 
from this morning muster is to plead a bath engagement—health- 


seekers are supposed to be perpetually drinking or dipping. 
Arrived at the Trinkhalle, maids as kindly, if not as lovely, as 


# 








An Australian's Notes at Wiesbaden. 641 


those who offer corn and flowers at castled Drachenfels, serve out 
steaming jorums of something which tastes not unlike very weak, 
over-salted chicken-broth. Indeed, the whole scene, in spite of 
its picturesque accessories, has a vague resemblance to a glorified 
soup kitchen, for although among the well-dressed and prosperous 
crowd there are none ostensibly poor, there are, alas, a sad 
proportion of aged and infirm, of blind, lame, and halt. Another 
striking likeness is that there is no charge for the refreshment so 
liberally dispensed. The bountiful Cur Director supplies water, 
glasses, and attendance, to say nothing of the splendid band and 
sheltering colonnade, without any cost. To be sure, there is no 
law to prevent you occasionally offering a silver coin as a token of 
good will to the smiling mddchen who fills your glass, especially 
should you be one of those nasty particular people who have a 
specially-reserved. drinking cup (mine is 1,604, so fastidious people 
are not uncommon), but it is a matter entirely between you and 
Gretchen ; and I have never observed anyone being helped out of 
turn because of this little gratuity, or made to wait unduly because 
of having omitted it. The Kochbrunnen waters, which are 
especially efficacious for the cure of gout and rheumatism, are 
supposed to be beneficial in a great many other cases; and even 
the small percentage of people who come to Wiesbaden in perfect 
health go through a course of drinking and baths as a preventive 
of future illness, or sometimes merely pour passer le temps. 

Less than twenty years ago it was not in this water or 
milk-and-water fashion that visitors to Wiesbaden diverted 
themselves. Gaming-tables as attractive as those now flourishing 
at Monte Carlo were in full sway, and with them, of course, the 
excitement, extravagance, despair, and other evils which, when 
driven out of Germany, fourd asylum in the lovely little 
principality of Monaco. But these evil days are past and gone, 
leaving behind hardly a trace of their existence. The casinoes are 
transformed into reading-rooms and salles de yeu, where, instead of 
rouge et noir, visitors amuse themselves with a quiet game of whist, 
or scientific chess tournament. T'yrannous, pitiless Fortuna, who 
enticed men to her realms but to madden and destroy them, is 
discrowned, and in her stead reigns mild, merciful, benignant 
Hygeia, who comforts and blesses all who approach her. Curhaus, 
Cursaal, Cur Director, Cur Orchestra, such are the suggestive 
names of her temples and priests. 


642 The Irish Monthly. 


Life hath so many pathways my feet have never traced, that I 
am not prepared to maintain that in some far fair land unknown 
to me, there does not exist a pleasure ground more beautiful than 
the Curhaus-park in Wiesbaden; but, such as it is, it was a 
revelation to me. The morning sun rising out of the blue 
Mediterranean, the pale moon lighting up a snow-capped Alps, 
magnificent sights as they be, do not make a picture so restful and 
pleasing to my eyes as the wonderful trees of this park. Avenues 
of chestnuts in full bloom, copper beeches with leaves of burnished 
bronze, stately old oaks with wide-spreading branches, besides the 
small prettinesses of golden laburnum, hawthorn, and lilac, make 
up an earthly paradise; nor is harmony wanting to complete the 
charm. A full choir of blackbirds and thrushes sing lauds and 
matins, while the nightingale with deep sweet trill offers up the 
evening hymn. 

The population of Wiesbaden, native and foreign, fully 
appreciate this beautiful park, and spend many hours a day in its 
shady depths. The Cur Director, whether in the interest of the 
children or their seniors 1 know not, but certainly for some good 
reason, as everything is perfectly managed for public convenience, 
has set apart special benches, marked kinderbank, for the use of 
little people and their attendants. An English nurse with her 
charges, knowing nothing of this rule, sat herself down one day 
near me, and so I was witness of an amusing little pantomime. 
One of the caretakers approached, cap in hand (all officials, even 
under-gardeners, wear a semi-military uniform), and made the 
young woman a polite bow. He explained at some length the by- 
Jaw under which she was offending, but, of course, she did not 
understand a single word of what he was saying. At last, failing 
to make her comprehend, he took her hand and led her in the 
direction of a kinderbank. She—half terrified, half flattered at 
such attention from a foreigner with a military cap—made no 
resistance, and it was not till she was seated in a group of twenty 
nurses and four times as many children that she grasped the 
situation. The cap was again politely raised, and the gardener 
withdrew. Apropos of nurses, it is the fashion in this part of the 
world to carry young babies on a pillow. An ornamental pillow- 
slip, tucked and embroidered like a christening robe, is drawn 
half-way over pillow, baby, and all, except, of course, the child’s 
head, which peeps out on the top of the pillow in a quaint little 











An Austrahan’s Notes at Wiesbaden. 643 


cap. This mode of carrying a baby has its advantages, as there is 
no risk of straining its back or tiny neck, but it is rather 
cumbersome, and would not, I imagine, find favour with colonial 
nurses. Another note I made in the children’s quarter was that 
all the little lads wore their upper and lower garments of contrast- 
ing colours—white jacket, blue legs; grey jacket, red legs; buff 
jacket, brown legs, and so on; the effect, I thought, was novel 
and picturesque. JI do not know if it has found its way to 
Australia, or, like the pillowed babies, is a purely local fashion. 
German mothers have not the advantage of Mr. du Maurier’s 
teaching in dressing their little girls. The black-stockinged, short- 
skirted, long-haired, altogether fascinating Effies and Ediths, 
whose portraits we are so familiar with in London Punch, are 
evidently not the models they adopt, though they are the best of 
fashion-books to English-speaking mothers all over the world. 
All the little /rauleins with the smallest pretention to elegance 
wear white stockings (usually elaborately knitted ones), and as 
they are as a rule sturdy, large-limbed children, the effect is not 
pretty. And even when the /rauleins have outgrown their childish 
plumpness, lengthened their skirts, and turned up their massive 
plaits of fair hair, they are generally too square and substantial to 
satisfy our ideal of girlish grace. I have not seen many pretty 
faces among the German women. Indeed, as I heard remarked at 
an afternoon concert of the Cursaal, “ Fausts are plentiful enough 
at this Teutonic gathering, but where, oh where, are the 
Marguerites?” But if the girls lack the willowy litheness of 
English girls, and the older women have little of the grace and 
vivacity of their Gallic neighbours, the men are undoubtedly fine, 
soldierly-looking fellows, much more erect and well poised than 
the average Englishman, and more martial in their bearing than 
the undersized Frenchmen, who go through almost the same 
military drill. Soldiers of every degree, from private to field- 
marshal (if the uninitiated can judge of the rank by the uniform) 
throng the parks and gardens. Many of these warriors are 
disfigured by deep sabre cuts on brow and cheek—records, I should 
imagine, of their wild student days rather than honourable scars 
received on the field of battle. Of course, when these gentlemen 
pass each other on the promenade, they exchange military salutes 
—this one understands even if one’s previous training in social 
observances of that character should have been confined to what 


644 The Irish Monthly. 


may be learned in Collins-street—but when civilians take off their 
hats to each other with the ceremony and politeness which at home 
one is only accustomed to see men pay to womenkind, one realises 
fully the fact of being on /a Continong, where we Britishers, with 
our brusque manners and abrupt movements, are still looked upon 
as semi-barbarians. But a more pleasing evidence of the reverence 
and courtesy inherent in these gentle-mannered Nassauers is the 
veneration in which they hold the names not only of the great and 
gifted of their own race, but even those of alien lands. One 
hostelry—not the one from which I write (its tablets are yet to be 
emblazoned) but Zum Biren, close at hand—has a marble tablet 
on each side of the main entrance, on one of which is inscribed 
“Thomas Campbell resided in this hotel in August, 1841,” 
and on the other ‘“‘ Goethe wohnte in dessem Hause in Sommer, 
1814 and 1815.” 

This quiet town of Wiesbaden, so far removed from the 
panoply of courts, a few days since at the same time sheltered 
within its precincts no less than three Empresses, and surely few 
women of any rank in life have had cause to shed more bitter tears 
or to realise more completely the vanity of human greatness than 
these exalted ladies One of them, Eugenie, once the most 
beautiful woman in Europe, and the darling of a people who more 
than any other bow before the shrine of beauty, has one by one 
lost all that made the joy of life—empire, husband, son, all are 
gone; gone too her witchery of form and feature, for years and 
sorrow have done their cruel work. And who can measure the 
anguish with which the Empress Frederick watched the progress 
of the treacherous disease which day by day sapped the life of her 
heroic husband; or, more terrible than aught beside, the agony 
with which the Empress of Austria must have looked on the face 
of her only son, dead by his own hand? Ah, not the waters of 
Wiesbaden, but of Lethe, one would offer, were it possible, to 
those sorely-tried women. 

Susan Gavan Dorry. 


645 


SINITE PARVULOS. 


[A preacher about to begin his sermon sees a nurse trying to rouse her little charge, 
who has fallen asleep. The priest remontrates smilingly,—‘‘ Nay, let him sleep.’’ | 


Nay, let him sleep ! 
A young unfolded bud — 
No speck of sinful mud 
Hath fallen on the white closed petals ever. 
So let him soundly sleep, 
He hath no cause to weep 
Who yet hath carried sin’s sad burden never, 


Let childhood sleep ! 
Ah, that he might not wake 
Save for his mother’s sake 
’T were well that he should pass away unsinning 
From sleep to lasting rest 
On his Creator’s breast, 
While rosy life is at its sweet beginning. 


' Aye! let him sleep ! 
’Tis but a little hour 
He gave to God his dow’r 

Of freshest praise, and innocent pure prayer ; 
His rosy lips did part, 
And heaved the tiny heart 

To Jesus living on the altar there. 


O, let him sleep ! 
He in his guileless dreams 
Will wander by soft streams 
Where great moon-daisies grow in grassy hollows ; 
Bird music ringeth there 
In sunny meadows where 
The bleating new-born lamb its mother follows. 


Yea, let him sleep! 
E’en in the twilight dim 
Some loving cherubim 
Will see and stoop to kiss him as he’s sleeping ; 
Nor will the Mother frown, 
Nay, sweetly she'll look down 
And fold him in her own most blessed keeping. 


646 The Irish Monthly. 


And, if he sleep 
When all the preaching’s o’er 
And yonder golden door 
Uncloseth for the sacramental blessing, — 
The Saviour will approve, 
And with a special love 
Will whisper softly with most sweet caressing. 


Davin BEARNE. 


JOHN PIUS LEAHY, O.P., 
Bisuor oF Dromore. 
PART II. 


In the letter given last month Dr. Cullen (not yet Cardinal) threw 
upon some one else the “blame” of having brought Dr. Leahy 
into the peril of being made bishop. The guilty party does not 

, seem to have been Dr. Cullen’s successor in the See of Armagh, 
whose funeral sermon Dr. Leahy was afterwards to preach—the 
holy, amiable, and learned Dr. Joseph Dixon. 


“ Drogheda, 16th May, 1854. 
‘“‘Myvy Dear FATHER Leary, , 

“ I am very sorry to perceive from your letter your distress at the report which 
has got abroad. If I should have the pleasure of meeting you at any time, I shall 
let you know the whole history of the matter as far as I am acquainted with it. It 
will be a consolation to you to know that I have received no official account 
whatever of your appointment. WhateverI said in Drogheda was based upon 
Tumours coming from members of your Order. If any more certain statement from 
Rome should reach me, all I can say is that I shall be ready, in conjunction with 
Dr. Cullen, at any stage of the affair, to submit a full aad fair statement of the 
difficulties which deter you to the Sacred Congregation. 

‘‘ Recommending myself to your prayers, 
“I remain, my dear Father Leahy, 
“é Yours faithfully, 
‘¢  JosEPH Drxon.’’ 


Whatever opposition the humble Dominican attempted proved 
happily unsuccessful, for in three months he received the 
following letter from the venerable prelate to whose assistance he 
was summoned :— 


Ai 


John Pius Leahy, O.P. . 647 


“ Violet Hill, Newry, August 29th, 1864. 
‘¢My Dear Lonrp, 

“ About ten days ago, when preparing for the annual retreat of my clergy, I 
received a letter from the Cardinal Prefect of Propaganda, stating that on account 
of high recommendations which His Holiness had received of your lordship’s 
superior merits and the many eminent qualities by which you are distinguished, 
His Holiness has by his decree constituted you Coadjutor Bishop of this Diocese of 
Dromore. 

“On yesterday I received a letter from the Primate ef all Irelaud, dated the 
27th inst., stating that on the preceding day the briefs for your consecration had 
reached him, and that he had signified their receipt to your lordship; and on this 
morning I was honoured with your letver, dated the 27th inst., expressing what I 
most sincerely believe to be the genuine feeling of your good heart, your heavy 
affliction that such an appointment had fallen upon you, and your deep sense of the 
awful responsibility of the episcopal office. 

I will not, therefore, congratulate you on an event which I am fully aware 
must convert your life into one of most painful cares and solicitudes; but I cannot 
but feel joy within myself that God has been so merciful to me, a poor, old, infirm, 
and worn-out bishop, as to send me a Coadjutor full of zeal and talent and know- 
ledge and charity such as your character bespeaks; and the only regret I feel is, 
that in point of worldly comfort and worldly means, I fear you will make a bad 
exchange. But as for my part, I will endeavour to remove, as well as I can, all 
causes of complaint. 

‘‘Your suggestion of having the ceremony of consecration performed in the 
chapel where you have so long ministered, and in presence of the large circle of 
your old attached friends, is so reasonable and just that I cannot but approve of it. 
The feeble and decrepid state of my limbs will prevent me from having the 
gratification of assisting at it. But as it is probable you will endeavour to have it 
performed by our venerable Primate, that circumstance will stamp it as 
complimentary to the province of Ulster. 

“ Hoping that I shall soon have the happiness of seeing you here and the benefit 


of your assistance, 
‘‘T have the honour to be, 
“á Most respectfully and affectionately, 
“My dear Lord, 
“Your Lordship’s devoted servant, 


“ M. BLAEE, 
“The Right Rev. Dr. Leahy, &c., &.’’ 


Finally the day of his consecration was fixed by the following 
letter — - 


“My Dear LoBD, 

‘‘T received a note from Dr. Cullen by the same post which conveyed your 
Lordship’s. Considering the views expressed in both, I believe I must, with the 
help of God, undertake to consecrate you myself. I take it for a fixed thing that 
Rosary Sunday, please God, will be the day. Exouse haste, and believe me to 
remain, my dear Lord, always with sincerest esteem and regard, 

é Yours faithfully, 
‘6 9% JosEPH Drxon. 


“Armagh, 3rd September, 1854. 


“* Right Rev. Dr. Leahy, §e., Ge. 





648 The Irish Monthly. 


Between the dates of those last two letters a Maynooth student 
belonging to Dromore tried to be the first of his diocese to pay his 
respects in person to the new Bishop. He had spent the last days 
of the summer vacation in bidding good-bye to a sister who was 
leaving her convent-home near the Old Head of Kinsale to found 
another near the far distant Golden Gates, where she has lived 
ever since the happy and useful life of a Sister of Mercy. The 
Dromore student, passing through Cork, ventured to knock at the 
door of St. Mary’s Priory, which stands on the banks of the Lee 
within the sound of Shandon Bells; but his ambition was doomed 
to disappointment—Dr. Leahy was not at home to receive in 
person the homage which is now lovingly tendered to his memory 
by the same heart nearly forty years older. 

Among Dr. Leahy’s papers have been found some letters 
addressed to him by the great English convert who is at present 
occupying so large a space in contemporary literature. Cardinal 
Newman’s literary executor, who knows what a precious series of 
his letters I lately resigned to his keeping, would, I am sure, allow 
me to make use of the following letters, which were not then in my 
hands, and which would be of no service to the Cardinal’s 
biographer, except the last, which was, of course, one of many 
leave-takings of Ireland. His correspondence with Dr. Leahy 
began when they were both simple priests :— 


Catholic University House, Stephen’s Green, Dublin, 
June 28th, 1854. 
My Dear Fr, Leany, 


Will you kindly allow me to put down your name as one of our University 
Preachers? We shall not ask more of you than one sermon a year ; and our gain 
will very far exceed your trouble. 

Not forgetting the pleasant glimpse I had of you at Cork last February, 

IT am, my dear Fr. Leahy, 
Very truly yours in Xt., 
Joun H. Newman, 


Of the Oretory. 
The Very Rev. Dr. Leahy. f aid 


The following letter is given partly because it begins with the 
name of the Rev. John Brennan, of Warrenpoint, whom a few of 
our readers remember affectionately, though he is so long dead that 
his successor, the genial and pious Father Eugene M‘Mullen, has 
meanwhile had time to fulfil a long and zealous pastorate and to 
die some years ago,—himself succeeded by the Rev. Henry 








John Pius Leahy, O.P. 649 


O'Neill, to whom the present paper owes any worth that it may 
have :— . 
6 Harcourt-street, Dublin, 

Jan. 24, 1856. 
My Dean Lorp, 

Mr. Brennan called here to-day about an order for money sent from your 
Lordship to me, in behalf of the Catholic University, and not acknowledged by me. 

I told him I knew nothing of it; and he went away. However, I have to make 
a deep apology both to him and your Lordship especially. For, sinco he has been 
here, I have found it. It came in my absence and was safely lodged. It lay in 
& private place with other valuable papers. It was my own fault that you have 
had no acknowledgment of it. All I can say is, that, as the money matters are 
generally transacted by the Vice- Rector, as the Secretary of the original Committee, 
I have not directed my thoughts that way. 

Hoping you will kindly accept this explanation, and now acknowledging 
formally your order for £80 15s. 4d., and availing myself with great satisfaction of 
this opportunity of asking your Lordship’s blessing, 

I am, my dear Lord, 
Your faithful friend and servant in Xt, 
Joon H. Newman, 
Of the Oratory. 
The Right Rev. Dr. Leahy. 

P.S.—I have to thank your Lordship for your letter by Mr. Hennessy. It was 

a great gain to receive it from a person like yourself. 


The next letter that the first Rector of the Catholic University 
addressed to the Coadjutor Bishop of Dromore is the following— 
at least, the next of those in our hands, for there may have been 
some others in the interval, and there was certainly one. For the 
following letter refers to a request previously made that Dr. Leahy 
would preach the opening sermon of the University. Dr. Leahy 
had evidently objected to the short time allowed for preparation. 
Dr. Newman thus accounts for it :— 


“ 6 Harcourt-street, Dublin, 
é April 16, 1956. 
“ My Dear Lonp, 

“ FT ought to apologize to you for the seeming incivility of proposing to you so 
short a notice, but I had been hoping Dr. Oullen would give his approval to the 
day fixed for our opening for above a fortnight, and directly he assented, I asked 
him who was to preach, and when he suggested your Lordship as a person to be 
asked, I wrote to you immediately. 

“Our great anxiety is that we have no Bishop to preach ; and, to tell the truth, 
it is a sad thing to say, we seem deserted by the Bishops. 

“I say all this to excuse myself in your eyes for having seemed to act so 
unceremoniously towards you. Anyhow we shall have your blessing with us, 
though we have not your presence. 

“You were kind enough to say some time ago you would be one of our ordinary 


Vou. xvii. No. 911. 95 





650 | The Irish Monthly. 


preachers. Therefore, will you let me propose to you to preach for us the ordinary 
Sunday Sermon, either on June 1, 3rd after Pentecost, or June 15th, 5th after 
Pentecost,.or 29th, St. Peter and St. Paul ? - 
‘¢ Exouse me for troubling you, and believe me to be 
“ Your Lordship’s faithful servant in Xt, 
“ Joun H. Newman, 
° “ Of the Oratory. 

“The Right Rev. Dr. Leahy.’’ 


But, in spite of the short notice, our good Bishop consented to 
relieve Dr. Newman in his embarrassment, as we see from the 
following letter :— 

“ 6 Harcourt-street; 
“ April 18, 1856. 
“ My Dear Loxp, 

é The only drawback on the great delight with which I read your kind letter of 
yesterday evening was the fear I had encroached upon your goodness; but this 
feeling, as you may understand, did but increase my gratitude to you. 

“I am very sorry in any way to have inconvenienced you. All I know is that 
your Lordship is going to do a real service to the University. 

“ It seems to me as if it would have been observed and commented on if we had 
not had a Bishop to preach at our opening, though I know it would have been 
unreasonable, because they have plenty to do, I suspect, in their own spheres of 
action. I have asked a number of them before now to aasist us with their presence 
in the University pulpit, and (except Dr. Moriarty) their duties have not allowed 
them. 

‘s It isa further kindness in you that you have allowed me to be so unceremonious 
as to ask your presence here at so short a notice. 

é“ As to the subject of the sermon, 1 know well that whatever comes from your 
Lordship will be listened to with deep attention and reverence, and will do good. 
And I assure you, if you preach simply on the Ascension, and only allude in a few 
‘words to the occasion of your being there, it will be quite enough. You are held in 
too much affectionate veneration here for us to require more than to see you and 
gain your blessing. , 

“ As you are so kind as to come at the opening, I will not, ask -Íor your 
assistance at any other time. 

“é I am, my dear Lord, 
“ Your most sincere servant in Xt, 
“ Jonw H. Newman, 
“ Of the Oratory. 
<‘ The Right Rev. Dr. Leahy.” 


Just one year later Dr. Newman writes to announce his 
resignation of the post of Rector. He speaks already of his 
considerable age, and of his desire to establish his Congregation of 
the Oratory securely at Birmingham. That was thirty-three 
years ago; and yet it is only while these pages are being sent to 
the printer, in the first week of November, 1890,that Cardinal 
Newman’s first successor as Superior of the Oratory at Edgbaston 


SIE” 











John Pius Leahy, O.P. 651 


has been elected in the person of Father Ignatius Ryder, whose 
name (often cut down to the initial of his first name) has happily 
been familiar to the readers of this Magazine :— 


“ Dublin, April 2, 1857. 
«“ My Daan Logp, 

‘ST fear you will think it but a poor return to you for your unvariable kindness 
to me if I write to announce my approaching resignation of the Rectorship of the 
University. 

é“ I have more reasons for this step than it is easy to enumerate on paper. My 
age is now considerable; my contemporaries are dying or failing around me; I 
cannot tell what time is left to me for any work; and I do not like the prospect of 
being taken away without having given my last years to my congregation at 
Birmingham. These are some of the considerations which I trust will justify me in 
your Lordship’s eyes for the step I am taking. 

“ I propose to resign in November next, when I shall have given more than six 
years to the work of the University, though for only half of them I have had any 
continuous residence in Dublin. 

“This space of time is equal, in preciousness to myself, to twice the number of 
years toa younger man. 

é I shall now entertain a grateful sense of the confidence with which you have 
honoured me, and the support you have given me, and begging your Lordship’s 
blesai 

mee “ I am, my dear Lord, 

“ Your faithful and obedient servant in Xt, 
“ Jonw H. Newman, 


; “ Of the Oratory. 
<* The Right Rev. the Coadjutor Bishop of Dromore.” 


“The Oratory, Birmingham, 
“ April 16, 1857. 
é“ My Dear Lorp, . 

“I knew perfectly well how kind an answer I should get from you; but that 
neither diminished my pain in writing to you, nor diminishes my gratitude now for 
what you have written. 

‘*Gladly would I do for the University anything which really was in my 
power, but I ought rather to return thanks that I have been allowed to do 
anything for it, than wonder that what I can do should find its natural limit. 

“ Iam greatly consoled by your assurance that you will not forget me in your 
good prayers, and begging your Lordship’s blessing, 

“ I am, my dear Lord, 
“ Your faithful and obedient servant in Xt. 
“ Joun H. Newman, 
‘* Of the Oratory. 
* The Right Rev. The Bishop Coadjutor of Dromore.” 


We have allowed this series of letters to carry our little 
narrative beyond the point it had reached. Dr. William Maziere 


Brady, in his very learned work “ The Episcopal Succession in 
England, Scotland and Ireland, A.p. 1400-1875,” gives some minute 


OTST —- —— ————IIII———II——r 


652 The Irish Montidly. 


dates connected with Dr. Leahy’s episcopal consecration which no 
one else could furnish. The reader who may be able to consult 
this work is warned that thereare two passages about our Prelate. He 
is referred to at page 305 of the first volume, and much more fully 
at page 365 of volume second. He was nominated coadjutor to 
Dr. Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore, on the 27th of March, 
1854; then, after all the opposition that he could make to it, this 
nomination was approved by the Pope (Pius IX.) on the 2nd of 
July, and decreed on the 7th. Finally, on the 10th of July, he 
was Officially appointed Bishop of Aulon in partibus infidehum, and 
Coadjutor to the Bishop of Dromore, with right of succession ; 
but the Brief embodying these appointments was dated the 14th of 
July.* | 

The consecration of the Bishop of Aulon took place in the 
Cork Church of the Dominican Fathers, October Ist, 1854. The 
correspondence already given has informed us that the consecrating 
prelate was Dr. Joseph Dixon, Archbishop of Armagh. He was 
assisted by Dr. Delany, Bishop of Cork, and Dr. Kilduff, Bishop 
of Ardagh, in the presence of Archbishop Cullen, afterwards 
Cardinal, and Dr. M‘Gettigan, afterwards Primate. The Bishops 
of Ross and Cloyne were also present, with the Coadjutor Bishop 
of Kerry, Dr. David Moriarty. 

The first day of October was chosen for the sacred ceremony 
because it was in that year Rosary Sunday. No more appropriate 
date could have been selected for this event in the holy man’s life; 


for the Rosary was the devotion of his predilection for the sake 


both of its origin and its object. Some years previously Father 
Leahy had published a devout treatise on the Rosary, from which 
an extract is given in the Literary Classbook of the Christian 
Brothers. Dr. Maziere Brady, in the work that we have referred 
to, states that our Bishop was the author also of several published 
Pastorals and Sermons, some articles in Magazines, and an article 
in The Dublin Review. He seems to have been supplied with these 


*Is not Dr. Brady in error in saying that the consecration took place in St. 
Mary’s Cathedral, Cork? St. Mary’s is the Dominican Church on Pope’s Quay. 
We may mention here out of the proper place that, according to Dr. Brady, Dr. 
Leahy’s brief of appointment to the bishopric of Dromore, upon Dr. Blake's 
resignation six years later, was dated February 29, 1860; but before its arrival the 
former brief had taken effect, Dr. Blake having expired in the night between the 
7th and 8th of March. With such minuteness are such events recorded in the 
Roman archiveg. 


<p. 





John Pius Leahy, O.P. 653 


details by some very well-informed friend of Dr. Leahy ; never- 
' theless another excellent authority on the subject doubts the 
accuracy of Dr. Brady’s statement.” “In The Dublin Reviete for 
September, 1845, there is an article on the ancient Irish Dominican 
Schools. It may have been his; but it is more probably the work 
of his confrére, Dr. Bartholomew Russell, O.P., who, I have heard, 
was an occasional contributor to the Review. The Bishop was 
always very reticent about matters of this kind.” 

Two weeks aftor his consecration Dr. Leahy made his first 
public appearance in his diocese when preaching the consecration 
sermon of the beautiful Church of Rostrevor. His people at once 
learned to value his solid and devout discourses, delivered with a 
calm fervour, and in a clear and earnest voice that soon made the 
listener forget that it was unmusical: for he was an exception to 
the Dominican tradition of skill in music. His pastoral homilies 
at the early mass on Sundays were always excellent. The few 
words that. he spoke at many funerals, when the coffin lay for a 
few minutes before the altar of the Old Chapel round which the 
burying-ground lies, never failed to make a deep impression ; and 
Protestants were glad to avail themselves of these funerals as the 
easiest opportunity of hearing the Bishop. One of the last of his 
more important discourses lies before us in pamphlet form— 
namely, the one preached at the dedication of the new Church 
of the Passionists, Mount Argus, Dublin; the church itself also 
being the last and one of the finest works of the architect, J. J. 
MacCarthy. 

The happiest reign has the shortest history; for there are no 
wars or revolutions to furnish matter for picturesque description. 
The last thirty years of Dr. Leahy’s life are summed up in the 
statement that he was a zealous, humble, holy bishop, revered and 
beloved. The feelings of his clergy were admirably expressed in 
the address presented to him on the oocassion of his silver jubilee, 
the 25th anniversary of his consecration as bishop. The nature of 
that address may be guessed from Dr. Leahy’s reply :— 


“I feeldeeply grateful, and I return my warmest thanks for the affectionate 
sentiments expressed in your eloquent address, and for the valuable gift which 


e Which is, however, confirmed by a still better authority. Dr. Leahy was the 
author of an article in The Dublin Review, on the expulsion of the Jesnits from 
Switzerland ; and he contributed several papers to the “Cork Magazine,’’ which 
began in November, 1847, but did not last long. 


654 The Irish Monthly. 


accompanies it.. But, with regard to the praises which in your kindness you lavish 
on me, I hope, through the mercy of God, that I am not vain enough to imagine I 
‘deserve them. It is true that the admirable works which you enumerate were 
accomplished since I came to this diocese, but that was merely a coincidence of 
time. The merit of those works belongs not to me, but to you and to the warm- 
hearted and religious people who helped you from their purse, and profited by your 
instructions. The aole credit which I can justly claim is that I encouraged you in 
your arduous labours, and rejoiced exceedingly in your success. 


You have mentioned the frequency and manner of my discourses. I shall not 
deny that I have endeavoured to preach, with becoming assiduity, the sublime and 
saving truths of religion, in simple words, intelligible to all. But this was only the 
fulfilment of an indispensable duty which I could not neglect without incurring the 
anger of God, and thereby the awful punishment of an excruciating eternity. To 
use the inspired language of the Apostle St. Paul, ‘‘ If I preach the Gospel it is no 
glory to me, for a necessity lieth upon me. For woe is unto me if I preach not the 


Gospel” (1 Cor., ix. 16). 


- You refer to my share in the deliberations of the Episcopal Councils, I can 
assure you that my attendance at those meetings, far from subjecting me to any 
wearisome labour, was, on the contrary, a source of pleasure and edification. My 
occupation there was scarcely ever more than to listen to ‘evidences of wisdom, 
prudence, zeal, learning, and mutual respect displayed by the assembled prelates, 
and if, on some rare occasion, I imagined that it might be useful to offer a 
suggestion, some other Bishop was sure to render my interference unnecessary by 
urging views, similar to mine, in language clearer and more convincing than I 
could command. 


It istruly gratifying to learn that my demeanour towards you personally has 
been such as you would desire, and were fully entitled to expect. Indeed, it would 
have been very strange if, when a suitable occasion offered, I did not show the 
respect and affection I sincerely feel towards those who have been raised to the 
exalted dignity of the Priesthood, and who spend their lives in labouring for the 
salvation of men—the very purposes for which our Divine Redeemer devoted 
thirty-three years of His mortal existence, and poured forth every drop of His 
heart’s blood in shame and torture on the cross of Calvary. 


Beloved brethren, seventy-seven years of age, and the failing energies of mind 
and body, warn me that the time is rapidly approaching when I must render to an 
all-seeing God a rigorous account of my stewardship. It will, therefore, be adding 
immeasurably to the favours conferred on me if, by frequent and fervent prayers, 
you obtain for me, through the superabundant merits of Christ, and the intercession 
of His ever-immaculate Mother, and of His Angela and Saints, a full remission for 
the innumerable deficiencies of my past life, as also the powerful graces which will 
enable me to act the part of a “ good and faithful servant” during the short time 
that still remains to me. 


And I earnestly implore that, after I pass into eternity, you will charitably 
remember me at the altar, when you will be offering ‘‘ the most precious blood 
which washes away the sins of the world.” That God, who selected you to be His 
coadjutors in the greatest of all His works, may bestow on you the brilliant reward 
promised to those who instruct many unto salvation, is, and shall be, the ardent 
daily prayer of him whom you have so kindly and generously addressed on the 
twenty-fifth anniversary of his consecration.” 





John Pius Leahy, O.P. ' 655 


But, though Dr. Leahy devoted himself heart and soul to his 
episcopal duties, he was to the end a true Dominican. Once 
having to plead in his presence for some religious purpose ina 
rural church of his diocese, I, with much misgiving, attempted 
something like a compliment to his Lordship; but I could only 
venture to do so, I remember, by linking his name with certain 
Dominican names that were sure, I knew, to sound sweetly in his 
ears. I said that the great Order of Friars Preachers was dear to 
the clergy and people of Dromore, not so much for the sake of St. 
Dominick himself and his share in the Rosary; nor for 
Fra Angelico and all that he had done for Christian Art; nor even 
for the Fra Angelico of Christian Science, the Angelic Doctor, 
Thomas Aquinas, Patron Saint and Prince of Theologians; nor 
for Bartholomew de Las Casas, the heroic champion of the slaves; 
nor (to come nearer to our own time) for the sake of the Friar 
Preacher who had awakened Paris and France; nor even for the 
sake of the Irish Lacordaire who had made the name of Burke 
illustrious for the second time in the annals of oratory ; for none of 
all these, but for the sake of the Bishop whom the Dominican 
Order had given to Dromore, and whom Dromore would love and 
revere the more with every year that he was spared to her. 

He was spared to her much longer than could then have been 
hoped. Dr. Leahy’s health was never robust; and what is sup- 
posed to be the chief support of bodily health—food—he always 
partook of very sparingly. Some Dromore priest boasted of 
having a bishop who could preach as eloquent a sermon, pray as 
fervent a prayer, tell as good a story, and eat as bad a dinner, as 
any prelate in Christendom. As early as February 15th, 1857, 
Dr. Leahy wrote to Mrs. O’Connor, the first Superior of the Sisters 
of Mercy in Newry: “I want your prayers far more for the health 
of my soul than of my body. I think it likely enough that I have 
not long to live, and many warnings show me that I ought to be 
directing all my attention to the great change.” Yet he had then 
more than thirty years still to wait on earth. How so frail a body 
was maintained so long on such meagre fare was a mystery. 

Allusion has just been made to Dr. Leahy’s skill as a raconteur. 
He was full of minute and accurate information on a vast number 
of subjects in very different spheres of knowledge. In the matter 
of interesting anecdotes, well narrated, he could in his own grave 
way rival two bishops to whom he was in many respects a contrast 


656 The Irish Monthly. 


—Dr. William Delaney, of Cork, and Dr. George Butler, of 
Limerick. 

The venerable old man was a few y years ago relieved of all the 
responsibilities of his position by the appointment of his coadjutor, 
Dr. Thomas McGivern, the present Bishop of Dromore. He spent 
the rest of his days in retirement at his residence, Violet Hill, near 
Newry, preparing for “the great change” which was in his 
thoughts more than thirty years before. In these last years his 
chief earthly support was the tender filial care of the Rev. Henry 
O’Neill, who had lived with him through the whole term of his 
priestly life, and in whom he placed the fullest and most affectionate 
trust. So he quietly prayed and waited, showing his saintly and 
amiable nature to the last. And then, at last, after almost too 
long a warning, “ the great change ” came. 

At the next meeting of the Newry Town Commissioners, one 
of them (a Protestant) moved the adjournment of the proceedings 
as a tribute of respect to the deceased Bishop, saying that he had 
known Dr. Leahy: for a considerable number of years, and he could 
safely say that he had never known a more Christian gentleman. 
His holy remains were laid to rest in that burying-ground which 
we have spoken of somewhere in the course of this sketch as lying 
round the “ Old Chapel.” May his soul, and the souls of all the 
faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace and in 
the sure hope of a happy resurrection. Would that for all of us 
that hope were as sure as it is for John Pius Leahy, of the Order 
of Preachers, Bishop of Dromore. 





LITTLE WHITE ROSE. 
 ITTLE white rose that I loved, I loved, 


Roisin ban, Roisin ban /* 
Fair my bud as the morning’s dawn. 
I kissed my beautiful flower to bloom, 
_ My heart grew glad for its rich perfume— 
Little white rose that I loved. 


* As our typefounder has not supplied us with Celtic characters, we may explain 
that these words might be spelled phonetically rosheen bawn, and that the two other 
epithets applied to the White Rose rhyme each with the succeeding line.— Ea. J. M. 





, 


Captain Vernon Harris. 687. 


l.ittle white rose that I loved grew red, 
Rotsin ruad, Roisin ruad ! 

Passionate tears I wept for you. 

Love is more sweet than the world’s fame-- 

I dream you back in my heart the same, 
Little white rose that I loved ! 


Little white rose that I loved yrew black, 
Rorsin dub, Rosin dub / 
So I knew not the heart of you. 
Lost in the world’s alluring fire, 
I cry in the night for my heart’s desire, 
Little white rose that I loved ! 
Dora SIGERson. 


JAPTAIN VERNON HARRIS AND THE IRISH 
MONTHLY. 


IE is not of very great importance ; but, if it is to be put on 

record at all, now is the time, for the year is closing in which 
the httle incident occurred. It came under our notice only by 
accident and in a very roundabout way; but, as it procured for 
this Magazine the honour of occupying the attention of Parliament 
for three minutes and a-half, perhaps we are bound in gratitude to 
save it and Captain Harris from oblivion. 

W hoisCaptain Vernon Harris? English literature, asrepresented 
by the present page, will henceforth for ever chronicle the fact that 
in the year of grace, 1890, a gentleman having that name filled 
the post of Governor of Her Majesty’s Convict Prison at Chatham. 
In that year John Daly and certain others convicted of treason 
felony were confined in the aforesaid prison; and, complaints 
being made about their treatment, Parliament ordered an Enquiry 
to be made by the Visitors of the prison. This enquiry was held 
in March, 1890. The witnesses do not seem to have been 
examined on oath. Among them was, of course, Captain Harris. 
His evidence is given at page 170 of Blue Book C—6,016. 
Question 6,127 put by Mr. Drummond: “ Do I understand you to 
say that the articles in the magazines are occasionally cut out ?”’ 


658 ' - ‘The Irish Monthiy. 


And Captain Harris replied : “ Yes, from the monthly. magazines.” 
And to the further question, ““What magazines?” he answered : 
“The Irish Monthly and the Catholic World are of a very advanced 
Fenian type.” The chairman then interposed with the query: 
“Are they taken in here? ’’—‘ Yes, they were taken in long 
before the movement took its present form.” 

There were thirty-five thousand chances to one that The Irish 
Monthly would never come to know the kind opinion that Captain 
Harris thus expressed concerning its political views. Of the 
thousands and thousands of Blue Books this is the only one we 
have ever purchased ; and the revenue of Her Majesty’s Stationery 
Office would not have been swollen by 1s. 10d. if a Southampton 
subscriber had not happened to notice the above questions and 
answers, and if he had not kindly taken the trouble to bring them 
under the notice of the Editor. As the Report had been made to 
the Secretary of State for the Home Department, the Editor first 
drew his attention to the matter, and was favoured with the 
following communication :— | 

Whitehall, 


7th Joly, 1890. 
Siz, 


With reference to your letter of the 6th ultimo, I am directed by the Secretary 
of State to acquaint you that he has made enquiry into the matter, and desires me 
to express his regret that the Governor of Her Majesty’s Convict Prison, Chatham, 
should appear in the printed report of the evidence taken at the recent enquiry at that 
prison to have misrepresented the character of the ‘Irish Monthly.” I am to 
explain that, owing to the desire which was felt to bring out the report with as 
little delay as possible, the usual opportunity was not given to the witnesses of 
correcting the proof of their evidence before publication ; and the Governor says 
that his answer, No. 6,129, is incorrectly reported, and that it was not “The Irish 
Monthly”? but another journal which was described as being ‘‘ of a very advanced 
Fenian type.’’ 

I am, Sir. 
Your obedient Servant, 
Goprreer Lussineron. 


So Captain Harris’s answer was “incorrectly reported.” I 
wonder how it would have run if it had been correctly reported. 
It would be hard to conjecture what other magazine was really 
honoured with the Governor’s criticism. There is none of a 
similar name or nature. Our Magazine, we fear, is not of such 
world-wide fame that a blundering reporter would substitute it for 
another. And we are confirmed in our misgivings about this 
official explanation by the fact that the Home Secretary himself, 











To Sister Mary Benignus. 659 


when questioned later on the subject in the House of Commons, 
gave a different explanation on the same authority. Mr. D. 
Crilly, M.P., just before the House broke up for the summer 
vacation, asked Mr. Matthews if his attention had been called to 
the statement of the Governor of Chatham Prison, describing 
Tne Intsn MoNTHLY as being of a very advanced Fenian type. 
although in an existence of eighteen years it had never propounded 
any political views of even the mildest kind. This time the Home 
Secretary laid the blame ‘on the punctuation, which ought, it 
seems, to have confined this charge to the last of the two 
magazines. We are not sure that our transatlantic contemporary 
will be content to be thus characterised ; but our own concern is 
to say that this second explanation is more lame than the first, 
and that it would have been more credible and more creditable if 
Captain Vernon Harris could have condescended to confess his 
mistake and to apologise for it. But how could so high an official 
be expected to plead guilty to the crime of having passed a rash 
judgment on Tue Irish MoNTHLY P 


TO SISTER MARY BENIGNUS. 


(Written for the Children at the Convent, Goldenbridge, Dublin, for the Feast of 
St. Benignus, November 9th, 1890). 


Y Nanny’s stream, as once St. Patrick slept, 

A fair child gathered, till his arms were wide, 

The fragrant flowers, and to the sleeper’s side 
On tiptoe stealing, where the willows kept 
Cool shadows, in love’s tender ways adept, 

Strewed o’er his bosom all the meadow’s pride— 

The dreamer dreamt the angel of the tide 
Kissed him, as onward with the wave he swept. 


It was the boy Benignus. He, for us 
And all our country’s children, offering 
That flowery tribute to a saintly fame, 
Made us till now his debtors : therefore, thus, 
To pay that olden debt, these flowers we bring 
To thee, the heiress of his gentle name. 
Joun Fitzpatrick, O.M.I. 





660 . The Irish Monthly. 


NOTES ON NEW BOOKS. 


1. ‘‘ Whisper! By Frances Wynne” (London: Kegan Paul, 
. Trench, Triibner and Co.) is not, as one might guess from its name, a 
pleasant tale in prose, but an exceedingly graceful and attractive 
collection of lyrics. It is a small book, and none of the pieces fill 
more than a page or two; and so much the better. We are sorry 
that the remark has so much the appearance of a pun, but we can 
think of no other epithet more appropriate for Miss Wynne’s muse 
than winsome and winning. With all her musical lightness of touch 
there is deep feeling in many of these dainty poems. Several of them 
have. appeared in Longman's Mayastne, under the auspices of the 
fastidious and critical Mr. Andrew Lang, “ At the Sign of the Ship.” 
Others of them will have a familiar sound for our own readers. We 
' are safe in predicting for the delicious little tome a popularity that 
falls to the lot of few books of verse. We shall carefully take note 
of the verdict passed by the Saxon and American critics on this 
youngest and freshest of our Irish poets. 


2. If this ‘‘ Whisper!” had not reached us at the last moment, 
our first word of welcome would have been for another very elegant 
volume of verse which has had to travel much farther in order to 
reach our sanctum. We have more than once given our meed of 
praise to the excellent work done both in prose and verse by Mrs. 
Blake, of Boston. Her newest title-page is ‘‘ Verses along the Way. 
By Mary .Elizabeth Blake, author of ‘ Poems,’ ‘On the Wing,’ 
* Kambling Talks,’ ‘Mexico,’ ‘A Summer Holiday in Europe;’” and 
even this long enumeration ends with “'eto., etc.” The eminent 
publishers, Houghton, Mifflin and Company, of Boston and New 
York, have brought out the volume in accordance with the best 
contemporary canons of eesthetic elegance. Itis quite a large book 
of some 170 pages, containing, besides the poems ‘‘along the way,’’ 
sonnets and epigrams, poems ‘‘in lighter mood,” and poems about 
children, with a few translations from Mexican poets— by which last 
we are not much impressed, we confess. Mrs. Blake’s bright lyrical 
faculty comes best into play when she draws her inspiration from her 
Irish heart, or when childhood is her theme. This new volume 
contains some of her best and most attractive work. The land of her 
birth and the land of her adoption must both feel proud of her. 


3. To emphasise their importance by contrast, let us name, after 
these two books of verse, the two large volumes which form the new 
edition af the Zheologsa Moralie of Father Lehmkuhl, S.J. This is the 


SR. 


} 


Notes on New Books. 661 


sixth edition of this great work, which theologians have welcomed so 
earnestly. The new edition is enlarged, while its price is diminished ; 
and the publisher, Herder, of Friburg, has produced it with the best 
type on the best paper. 


4. It is appropriate to name after this almirable theological 
treatise an American work on Oanon Law, by an experienced 
Professor, the Rev. 8S. B. Smith, S.T.D., whose previous works in 
English on the same subject huve been warmly commended by 
practical authorities of high standing. The present work is.in Latin— 
Compendium Juris Canonict ad usum clers et Seminariorum hujus regions: 
accommodatum. Benziger of New York, Cincinnati; and Chicago, is 
the publisher. | , 


5. “The Sacred Heart Studied in the Sacred Scriptures” is a | 
volume of four hundred large octavo pages, translated from the 
French of a Belgian Redemptorist, Father Saintrain. It is a treasury 
of holy thoughts and affections on the love of God for man from 
eternity, since the creation, and finally since the Incarnation. We 
owe this English edition to Benziger also. 


6. Father John Morris, 8.J., contributes to the biographical series 
published by the Catholic Truth Society a penny life of Blessed 
Juvenal Ancina, the recently beatified Oratorian. The same 
indefatigable Society sends us, a little too late for this year, “ Little 
Helpers of the Holy Souls: a November Book for Children,” by the 
author of ‘‘ Lessons from our Lady’s Life.” It is written with a very 
beautiful simplicity. Hardly anyone but a mother with little children 
of her own around her could propose these holy thoughts in language 
which is so sure to reach the young hearts for whom this excellent 
pennyworth is intended. It will be useful during any month of the 
year, and not in November only. 


7. It is very seldom that a new book is published anywhere in 
Ireland except in Dublin; and this excites one’s interest beforehand 
in a book that comes from Limerick. Messrs. G. M‘Kern and Sons, 
Printers and Publishers, 113 George-street, Limerick, are about to 
issue a selection from the Poems of the Rev. Frederick Langbridge, 
Rector of St. John’s, Limerick, to which the author has given the 
humorously modest title of “A Cracked Fiddle.” Mr. Langbridge’s 
ballad-narratives and songs have already attained a wide popularity. 
Of one of his volumes Robert Browning wrote: ‘None are weak, 
many impressive, not a few excellent, in the adequacy of the expression, 
both in musicalness and colour, to the thing expressed.” The forth- 
coming volume will contain the pith and marrow of all the previous 
volumes, with a large number of uncollected poems. We guarante» 


(362 The Irwh Monthly. 


that it will be read with pleasure by many even who dislike verse. 
Attractively bound and with a specially engraved portrait, it will be 
sent post free to subscribers for four shillings. 


8. Miss Ella MacMahon is far above the average of translators 
from the French. She does not belong to the translator-traitor class. 
The latest addition to her library of pious translations, published by 
Benziger, is a fifth series of those “ little counsels for the sanctification 
and happiness of daily life” which have gained such vogue under the 
name of ‘Golden Grains’? or “Golden Sands.” We should be 
‘curious to see how page 150 runs in the original. Some Irish readers 
will be puzzled how E. Z. reads like ‘‘easy,” for they will not be 
aware that the last letter of the alphabet, which we call zed, is see in 
the United States. The same Publishers, Benziger Brothers, have 
issued another devout little book, ‘‘One and Thirty Days with 
Blessed Margaret Mary, —namely, a month’s meditations on the 
virtues of that holy Visitation Nun, translated from the French by a 
Baltimore Nun of the same Order. 


9. Blackie and Sons, of London, Glasgow, Edinburgh, and 
Dublin, are famous caterers for young people in search of pretty 
books at Christmastide. One of the prettiest of their newest batch is 
é“ Tom in a Tangle, and other Tales,” by Miss T. Sparrow, who has 
sometimes disguised herself as Darcy Byrn. We leave to her young 
readers to decide whether the story that is named on the title-page is 
not left behind in interest by ‘‘Mother’s Red Rose” or “ Dear Pussy,” 
or “ What Willie found under the Trees.”’ 


10. “ The Catholic Home Almanack” has reached its eighth year, 
and is published by the firm we have named so often—Benziger 
Brothers. It contains stories and excellent biographical sketches with 
pictures and portraits. But it has fallen into a curious blunder: it 
gives an account of Dr. McEvilly, Archbishop of Tuam, beginning 
with the statement that he died last January. It was the Arch- 
bishop’s mother who died then. ‘‘ The Catholic Family Annual” for 
1891 (Catholic Publication Society, New York) is in its 23rd year. It 
contains a vast variety of useful information with illustrations of that 
excellence to which American engravers have accustomed us. Finally, 
coming home to our own side of the Atlantic, we have received from 
Burns and Oates a new sermon and an old letter. The sermon is 
é The Obedience of Faith,” by Dr. Hedley, Bishop of Newport; and 
the letter is the famous one addressed by Cardinal Manning many 
years ago to Dr. Pusey, and entitled ‘“‘The Working. of the Holy 
Spirit in the Church of England.” Both seem to be admirably suited 
to convince those to whom they are specially addressed. ~ 


SI. 





i Notes on New Books. . 66:3 


11. Zhe Tablet, in recommending for use in schools Mr. Justice 
O’Hagan’s “Children's Ballad MRosary,’’ makes this practical 
suggestion: ‘‘As each ballad occupies a separate leaf in the book, the 
fifteen mysteries might be distributed among as many children, with 
promise of the entire book to those who succeed in accurate recital 
from memory.” We should add to this that the separation of leaves 
should take place in a penny paper-covered copy—expersmentum fiat in 
corpore vili—and that one of the pretty fourpenny copies in blue 
binding should then be given as a prize. We cannot refrain from 
adding here the thoughtfal criticism passed on Judge O’ Hagan’s little 
book by a writer in 7he Month for November : — 

“é One of the privileges of those who take part in the Christian education of 
little children is the opportunity they have of storing their childish minds with 
religious truths that bring forth good fruit in their after-life. Poems and ballads 
afford a special means of teaching them what they will never forget; verses learnt 
in childhood often remain fresh in the memory till old age. Any simple poetry 
that implants religious ideas is therefore ‘a boon to our little ones, and a versified 
Rosary ought to be welcome to all, priests, Christian Brothers, nuns eygaged in 
instruction, schoolmistresses, Sunday school teachers, to say nothing of fathers and 
mothers who prefer home teaching to doing by proxy the work that they can do 
best of all when circumstances allow. Mr. Justice O’Hagan is a benefactor to 
children and teachers alike by The Children’s Ballad Rosary, lately published by the 
Catholic Truth Society. It is a work of art as well as of piety. Unlike moet poems 
of the sort, it never flags, and it would be hard to point out weak stanzas. It will 
be a training in poetical narrative as well as in piety to those who use it. The 
metre is varied in the different parts of the Rosary, and we observe that to the. 
Sorrowful Mysteries is given the special honour of being double-rhymed.”’ 


JUDGE O’HAGAN. 


A WORD IN MEMORY. 


Thus far we had written about the latest production of Judge 
O’Hagan’s pen, little dreaming that it was not only the latest but the 
last—that he had laid down his pen for ever. We had hoped that, 
after his retirement from public life, his health would be sufficiently 
restored to allow him to work on through many years in divers ways 
for the objects that were dear to his heart, everything that concerned 
the welfare of his country, the good of souls, and the glory of God. 
But it was not to be. God willed that his death—which could not 
have been unprovided, since every year of his perfect Christian life 
provided for it—should come, if not with suddenness, yet without the 
weariness of waiting, and while his mind in its fuJl vigour could 
complete the preparation for the great change. Those who had the 





664 | The Lrish Monthly. 


happiness of knowing him in life, and who know how the end found 
him, can say with the simplest truth : 


He taught us how to live, and (oh, too high 
The price of knowledge !) taught us how to die. 


And surely it was a good omen that, as his last prose was his 
sympathetic essay in Zhe Contemporary Review on Thomas Davis as a 
type of Irish patriotism. so his last verses were ‘‘The Children’s 
Ballad Rosary.” These were the two strongest impulses of his 
nature—love of faith and fatherland, pro fide et patrid: This circum- 
stance has been remarked by manyalready. For instance, the author 
of ‘‘ Lessons from our Lady's Life” says in a private note: “It is 
nice to think that his last literary effort was in the cause of our Lady. 
He became like to a little child for her sake, and she will secure for 
him the promised reward.” 

These few grateful words, which have only been broken off from our 
book-notes at the last moment, must not allude to such merely natural 
things as the wonderful mental gifts and acquirements of the soul so 
lately departed. It is more fitting to note that in the exercise of 
them all he selected themes and objects that are worthy of being 
named even in the immediate presence of the majesty of death. Thus 
his marvellous skill as a metrical translator was expended on so solemn 
a lyric as the Dies Jrae and on so pure an epic as The Song of Roland. 
His spirit felt at home among these lofty thoughts. 

John Mitchel quotes somewhere with approval some one’s prayer: 
Sit anima mea cum Bedello! Those who knew intimately this great 
Catholic Irishman—a privilege for which they thank God as for a 
precious grace—would not hesitate to breathe with humble earnest- 
ness a similar prayer beside this new grave in Glasnevin, feeling 
confident that now indeed is realized the fancy of one of his colleagues 
who used to say that he never conversed with Judge O’Hagan 
without feeling the impression as of a man who looked habitually on 
the face of God. ‘‘ Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see 
God.” 

Thus, then, we close the eighteenth volume of our Magazine—in 
which our lost friend took the kindest and most practical interest from 
the first and till the last—by inscribing on this last page, with the 
deepest gratitude, love, and reverence, the name of Joun O’Haaay. 
Cujus anima in refrigeriun ! 

Farewell! Whate’er the future brings 
To us—no longer by thy side— 

*Twill help us on to higher things 
To think that ‘Aow hast lived and died. 


4 








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